


The Ascot Job

by Cutebutpsycho



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/pseuds/Cutebutpsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort-of-sequel to A Shilling for Your Kiss with the Leverage template.</p>
<p>Long story short: Do not cross Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ascot Job

“Harold John Culpepper you are sentenced to hang in a week’s time for the murder of Francis Bellamy,” the judge said as he brought the gavel down. “Until then, you will remain in prison.”

Harold Culpepper hung his head as he heard gasps of shock and an occasional cheer from the gallery. The chains weighed heavily on his wrists and ankles as he was lead out of the room by Scotland Yard. 

People exited the court en masse. The initial rush turned into a trickle and soon the room was empty, save for one man sitting in the back row.

He was a tall, heavyset man with piercing dark eyes and sharp features. His dark hair was slicked back and he was dressed in a black suit. Even though his expression was blandly neutral, on closer inspection, one could see worry in the corners of his eyes and his expression. After a few minutes, he stood, donned his coat and hat and hurried out into the rainy afternoon.

Things needed to be taken care of and immediately.

~*~

That night, Mycroft headed home from the Diogenes Club. Trundling up the steps, he noticed that someone picked his lock and entered his house. Mycroft cautiously entered the door, as his nose got a whiff of a familiar scent. A smile played on his lips as he looked down. There was a woman’s coat on the floor. A few steps down the hall, there was a plum-colored satin dress. 

Following the trail of clothing, which included a petticoat, corset, undergarments and stockings, Mycroft opened the door to his office and grinned at the sight inside. 

“I knew you’d come,” he said. “But I am surprised at your entrance.”

There was a throaty laugh. “I waited until your housekeeper left for the night,” Irene Adler replied. “I figured she didn’t need this sight in your office.”

Mycroft chuckled as he entered the room. Irene always knew how to make an entrance. This time she was sitting behind Mycroft’s desk, wearing only a ladylike hat with flowers, a matching pair of heels on her feet and a dark blue tie around her neck. Her long legs were resting on top of the desk, crossed at the ankles.

Striding over to his desk, Mycroft bent down and kissed Irene. “Nice tie,” he said.

“A present,” Irene said with a smile. “From Venice. There’s also some wine from Tuscany and a few cheeses from France. I figured we might be hungry later.”

She kissed him again, this time with a bit more ardor. “Do you remember what you once told me?”

“About taking you behind my desk?” Mycroft chuckled as his hands skimmed down her back.

Irene giggled. “Would you like to make this is a reality?”

And so they did. 

Afterwards, Mycroft sat in one of his large chairs next to the fire. Irene snuggled on his lap as they talked, a blanket covering them both. His wrists burned slightly from the tie that was used to bind them, but it wasn‘t an irritant. Besides, Irene eventually untied him after she had her fun. Not to mention, he did get to take her from behind, her hands planted firmly on the top of the desk, his hands gripping her hips as she bucked and squealed her way to orgasm.  
All in all, a pretty good evening, which made up for the terrible day, Mycroft mused to himself.

The wine was opened and poured as they discussed business. Sometimes they liked to do the inverse of things -- pleasure first, then business.

“It doesn’t add up,” Mycroft said. “Harry is not the type of man to get caught committing murder.”

“You say that like he’s committed murder before,” Irene replied. The arch of Mycroft’s eyebrow conveyed everything and she smiled slightly. “Why was he in London anyway? You told me he never wanted to set foot back here after his first wife left him.”

“Something greater than a broken heart occurred,” Mycroft said. “His son, James, got married recently.”

“Hell of a wedding present.”

Mycroft snorted. “I know,” he replied. 

“What was the last mission he was working on?”

If it was anyone else, Mycroft would have been more choosy about what he revealed. But there was something about Irene that made him speak plainly and truthfully to her. She saved his life twice and also was a valuable asset in a past situation. As a result, he had ideas about her. Seeing the shilling around her neck and nestled near her heart also confirmed Mycroft’s belief.

“The usual things honestly,” he said. “He told me he came to London for the wedding and because he was summoned by one of his informants.”

“Let me guess -- Mr. Bellamy?”

Mycroft nodded. 

“Why not just work your government magic and get him released?”

He shook his head and took a sip of wine. Passing the glass to her, he watched her as she took a sip. Irene’s hair hung in auburn ringlets around her shoulders and her eyes looked almost black in the firelight. Beautiful, smart and deadly as a pit of vipers, Mycroft thought to himself. He was a lucky man.

“Doesn’t work like that,” Mycroft said, as one hand idly massaged her breast. “The evidence is too compelling and we can’t interfere without tipping out hand. In these cases, the person sadly hangs -- the risk of the business.

“He’s also been foolish and not defended himself,” Mycroft added. “I suspect he’s worried that if he did so, the case would be compromised.”

“A true servant of Her Highness,” Irene said, with some sarcasm.

“A true and loyal servant,” Mycroft said, without the sarcasm.

Irene cradled the glass in her hands, watching the firelight diffuse through the wine. “Normally you‘d let it go,” she said, glancing at him. “But it’s Harry.”

“But it’s Harry,” echoed Mycroft as he leaned his head back and sighed. 

There was a long silence, then Irene looked up at him, her eyes flashing with mirth. “Why Mycroft Holmes,” she purred. “Are you suggesting we work outside of the law?”

The glimmer in Mycroft’s eye caused her to laugh as she kissed him. 

~*~

“I don’t understand why you summoned me here,” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared at Mycroft. “This is a government affair.”

They were in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club. After a game of chess and some deductions about passers-by outside (a retired Army man, recently widowed carrying a birthday present for a granddaughter; chambermaid, probably having an affair with the son of the owners and filching the silver), Mycroft brought up the Culpepper situation.

It was easier for Mycroft to refer to it as the “Culpepper situation” -- it put some emotional distance between him and his friend who was currently rotting in jail.

Mycroft didn’t move from his chair and his expression remained neutral. “Come now, brother,” he said. “You know I’ve asked for your assistance before.”

“Yes, but not for university friends who have a penchant for murder in the name of Her Highness,” Sherlock replied. “Besides isn’t this part of the sad state of your affairs? The collateral damage as it were?”

Mycroft shook his head. “It’s Harry,” he replied. “Don’t tell me you’d leave Dr. John Watson hanging if you were in my position.”

He was pleased to see a pang of remorse flicker across his little brother’s face. “That’s different --” Sherlock began.

Mycroft decided not to probe that further. His brother‘s facial expression told him everything. “Harry Culpepper is one of the most loyal friends I have and the most reliable source of information,” he interrupted. “I can’t name how many times he’s pulled my behind out of the fire.”

“And it is an ample behind.”

“Just because I enjoy my meals --”

“And snacks.”

“Quiet you,” Mycroft snapped. “What I’m asking of you is no more than what you’d ask of me if your doctor was in danger.”

A silence fell over the room. Sherlock puffed on a cigarette thoughtfully. Mycroft knew he was exploiting his brother’s weak point, but in this case, it had to be done. 

“You do have an overdeveloped sense of chivalry,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “But it’s been a few weeks since my last case.”

Mycroft smiled. 

“Now what do you require of me?” Sherlock’s lips were tugging up into what a person could charitably call a smile.

Mycroft told Sherlock what was required. And even though he might not admit it, the older brother was pleased at how the younger Holmes’ eyes glittered with interest when he heard the scheme. 

“Do you mind if I ask the doctor to accompany us on this?” Sherlock asked after Mycroft finished speaking.

“Only if he promises never to publish it,” Mycroft answered. “I don’t need my colleagues to know what nefarious deeds I’m up to.”

“My dear brother,” Sherlock grinned. “You have gone rogue.”

Mycroft shrugged pragmatically. “Sometimes one needs to so justice can be done.”

~*~

That evening, the four met at Baker Street. Mycroft expected four, but instead, there was a fifth.

“She insisted on coming,” Watson said apologetically. “I couldn’t dissuade her.”

Mycroft stared at the small blond woman sitting primly in the corner. “Mrs. Watson, I presume?” he asked.

The woman looked up, blue eyes sparkling. “Indeed,” she said, holding out a hand. “Mr. Mycroft Holmes I presume?”

Mycroft nodded, smiling at her. _Governess to one boy, tall for his age, married recently, judging by the shine on the ring -- is that the famed Maharajah diamond? -- military family background, not one to be trifled with judging by Sherlock‘s actions around her_.

His eyes quickly glanced up at Sherlock. _If I didn’t need you, I’d kill you,_ the glare said.

_I don’t like it either, but the woman has a will of iron,_ Sherlock’s look communicated.

Irene was much more gracious, introducing herself and shaking Mary’s hand with a smile before turning to hug Sherlock.

“Where are you staying now?” Sherlock asked her. “The Grand?”

Irene looked over at Mycroft, who was pulling files out of a briefcase.

Sherlock’s smile froze. “I am never going to get used to this,” he muttered.

Irene glanced over at Watson, who had a bemused look.

“Doctor,” she said with a fond smile. “Congratulations. She is a lovely woman.” Leaning over, she whispered, “Anyone who can keep Sherlock unsettled is a friend of mine.”

Watson’s lips quirked up into a smile. “Indeed.”

Mycroft coughed. “Now that we’re doing getting reacquainted,” he said. “We do have business.”

The four settled down and Mycroft opened a folder and began talking. 

“Here’s the situation: Harold John Culpepper, an informant of mine is going to be hung in a week for the murder of Mr. Francis Bellamy. I am certain he’s innocent. The last thing I knew he was investigating was possible smuggling by Lord Benjamin Blackshire.”

There was a slight cough from Irene. Mycroft looked up with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Yes?”

“No offense intended to the Englishfolk in the room, but what is it with the naming strategy?” Irene asked. “Last time there was a Lord Henry Blackwood and a Lord Coward. Can a villain be more obvious here? What happened to Lord Reginald McMurder?”

“The bloodline was killed in the last civil war,” Mycroft dryly replied. “May I continue?”

Irene nodded, an amused gleam in her eye.

“Lord Blackshire is the founder and owner of Blackshire Imports. They are a shipping company dealing with dry goods, spices from Asia. Harry was gathering information on smuggling that was traced back to the company. He came to London for his son’s wedding and to meet with an informant. But that informant was murdered. I believe Harry is innocent.” 

Mycroft handed over a picture of Lord Blackshire. “That is him and his wife, Anna.”

He glanced over at Sherlock. “Did you get any information?”

Sherlock nodded. “Lord Blackshire is interesting,” he said. “His company was a middling success, which is a bad thing for a gambler. The man has fondness for cards, horses, anything he can lose money on. He’s been in debt for the past few years. Until recently. Blackshire Imports has been doing more business as of late. Lord Blackshire has also been seen making more extravagant purchases as of late -- a necklace for his wife, new hats, that sort of thing.”

There was an unladylike snort from the back. “If that’s true, his wife isn’t benefiting one bit,” Mary said.

Four sets of eyes whipped back at her. Mycroft could see Mary blushing at the attention. 

“Mary --” Sherlock growled. 

Mycroft smiled. “No, Mrs. Watson, please explain,” he said sweetly.

“Well, I’ve seen Lady Blackshire about town,” Mary said slowly. “She’s still wearing fashions from last season, according to gossip.”

“So if he’s spending money, it’s probably on other women,” Mycroft replied, focusing his attention on her. _She has to have nerves of steel to tolerate your brother and her young charge -- is that ink on the lobe of her left ear?_ he thought to himself. _Observant in all the ways that Sherlock isn’t. Knows social graces. A fresh face --_

Mary nodded, the pink blush spreading all over her face.

Mycroft’s smile got sweeter. “Mrs. Watson, how would you like to assist us on this matter?”

“Oh no,” It was now Watson’s turn to growl. “We have Irene. She can fulfill any seduction duties.”

The pink blush on Mary’s face became red. 

“You are mad,” Sherlock spat out almost at the same time that Watson objected. “She would have no idea what to do --”

Mycroft sighed. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I will not debate this and I will only state it once. Irene, while she has her charms, is a more valuable asset in this case assisting Watson with breaking into the Blackshire estate tomorrow night. It is Ascot week. As owner of Blaze King, who is participating at Ascot, Lord Blackshire will be attending a little soirée tomorrow night with other race fans.

“Sherlock and Mrs. Watson will attend the party.” Mycroft handed his brother a folder, observing that Sherlock reddened as he explained the plan. “You will be disguised and your name is Alexander Hardison, escorting a Miss Sophie Devereaux. The goal is to get close to Lord Blackshire and obtain as much information as possible.”

“Why can’t I escort my own wife?” Watson interrupted.

Mycroft sighed. He missed the times when people would do as he said without question. “Because my dear doctor, a married couple reacts in ways that are uncontrollable,” he said in a clipped tone. “I do not know, for example, if you will fly into a jealous rage upon seeing another man flirting with your wife. I do not know if she will do the same. It is easier to separate you two to avoid covers being blown.”

“Where will you be?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft thought it over. Going to a party would be completely out of character for him. “I will help Watson and Irene,” he said finally. “If I am even seen at a party, everyone will wonder what the devil is occurring.”

Everyone couldn’t help but chuckle at that. 

~*~

“Culpepper,” the guard knocked the bars of the cell. “You have a visitor.”

Harry sat up, looking confused. “Who?”

“Your wife.”

Harry grinned when he saw Irene standing behind the guard. “Hello darling,” he said. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

~*~

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Watson asked his wife during the morning. Wrapping his arms around her, he added. “We can back out. We‘ll figure out a way.” 

Mary nodded. “It’s too late now,” she said. “I agreed to it and it would be dishonorable to quit.”

Watson nodded. While he wasn’t comfortable with his wife being involved in a caper, he was also pleased that she was in a situation that was less dangerous than the one Mycroft had planned for Irene and him. It was a party, he told himself, what could go wrong at a party?

“In that case, Holmes will be over in a bit to coach you on your French accent,” he said, kissing her gently. “I know you’ll be fine.” 

“ _Je l‘espere bien_.” Mary replied with a puckish smile.

~*~

“I take it you don’t have an escape plan up your skirts do you?” Harry asked Irene. They were sitting in his cell, which was bare, save for the small cot and blanket.

Irene smiled. “No,” she said. “Mycroft asked me to pass on word not to worry.” To her eye, even though Harry was still _Harry_ , she could see wear in the lines around his eyes. His hair looked more wild and he looked pale and frazzled.

“The damn fool,” Harry muttered. “His chivalry again?”

Irene nodded.

Harry laughed. “Tell him I called him a fool,” he said. “If he gets caught, everything will be compromised.”

“You know Mycroft,” Irene said. “He’s as stubborn as they get. Now what happened?”

Harry sighed. “I got word about my son, James, getting married,” his volume dropped to a whisper. “We were never really close, since his mother left me when he was a wee lad, but I wanted to be there. During that time I also got word from Bellamy that he wanted to meet. That he found out something huge about Blackshire Imports and he couldn’t send it to me via the usual routes. The letters sounded paranoid, unsettling. It was clear that someone was watching him.

“So I combined the two -- business and some pleasure. The wedding was lovely. He’s picked out a wonderful girl and his mother and I were civil enough to have a pleasant time. Anyways, the morning after the wedding, I went to meet Bellamy at a warehouse -- he chose the meeting spot.”

“But instead of finding him alive, he was dead.”

Harry nodded. “Scotland Yard was on the spot before I could even investigate. They arrested me.”

“You didn’t have an alibi for the night before?”

Harry shook his head. “I went back to my room and just slept. It was a rough wedding. Seeing --” his voice trailed off, “her with another man was difficult. I just wanted to crawl into a bottle of Scotch that night.”

Irene nodded. “Did you see anything unusual? Do you have ideas?”

Harry snorted. “It’s obvious it was someone connected to Blackshire. And they figured out Bellamy was the leak. I just had rotten luck to be there when the Yard showed up.”

~*~

True to Watson’s prediction, Holmes arrived at their house in time for lunch. He brought with him a brilliant blue velvet gown, finely crafted with white lace edging around the sleeves and neck. Embroidered flowers wound their way down the dress. The cleavage was designed to show off her assets in the most flattering way. Also included were all the appropriate accessories that shone and sparkled beautifully.

“This is not a subtle dress,” Mary said, running her fingers through the fabric.

“The goal is to keep Lord Blackshire’s eyes on you,” Holmes replied. “We want you to get close to him.”

Mary took a deep sigh. “This is more complicated than I thought.”

“It’s not too late to back out Mary,” Watson said. “We could send Irene in your stead and have Holmes break into the house. Things can be figured out.”

“This might be out of your expertise,” Holmes added. “It’s certainly understandable if you’re not up for it.”

Mary closed her eyes and took another deep breath. The entire room seemed too quiet for anyone’s comfort. She could feel the weight of their gaze on her. Then her eyes flashed open.

“ _Je sais faire ça, con anglais!,_ “ she spat out.

A shocked silence hung in the room.

“Well,” Holmes said. “I believe you are ready.”

~*~

“So how is Mycroft?” Harry asked. “I was hoping to see him during this little jaunt.”

Irene smiled involuntarily. “He’s Mycroft.”

“You two do make a deadly pair,” Harry chuckled. 

“It works,” Irene said, the smile softening. “He’s just reliable. Trustworthy. Loyal among people without honor. I --” her voice trailed off, unable to continue.

“Like Polaris,” Harry grinned, instantly understanding. “You could navigate by him.”

Irene nodded. Noticing the guard approaching she sniffled. “Oh Harry,” she wept. “I’m sorry about all of this. I love you darling.”

“Time’s up Culpepper,” the guard said, knocking on the bars with his baton. “Time for the Missus to leave.”

The two nodded and stood up. Irene kissed him and hugged him.

“You sure you don’t want to be Mrs. Culpepper Number Five?” Harry whispered in her ear.

Irene sniffled a bit. “You’ve got tough competition Harry -- maybe in another time or another place,” she whispered into his ear. 

They pulled away and he kissed her on the cheek. “I will see you again,” he said. “Maybe another time, another place.”

Irene nodded, wiped her eyes and walked out of the cell.

~*~

“Mr. Hardison and Miss Devereaux,” Lord Blackshire said, extending out his hand. He was a handsome man, in his mid-40s, and dressed impeccably in a tuxedo. Everything about him screamed wealth and gentility. 

Sherlock -- disguised with a pair of prince-nez glasses and false moustache bowed slightly with a wide smile. He glanced over at Mary, who was a nervous wreck in the brougham (which was also supplied with an ostentatious four-in-hand). She sat silently through the ride, twitching slightly, despite his best efforts to calm her. He was relieved that she didn’t throw up in the carriage. That would have definitely been gauche.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t fail them. But there was a cynical edge to him that expected that and, as a result, he was ready to grab her and run out the door. Knowing Mycroft, he planned for this and had a couple back-up schemes in place.

Mary smiled brightly and accepted Blackshire’s hand. “Bonsoir,” she practically purred, with a flawless French accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

~*~

“Do you really think it was the wisest thing to send Mary in to get Blackshire’s attention?” Irene asked Mycroft.

It was child’s play for Irene and Mycroft to get into the house. Once all the house lights dimmed for the night, the two approached the staff entrance. Despite the ostentatious lock, Irene picked it in under a minute. Watson had been instructed to stay outside, but whistle if the Blackshires were returning to the house. . 

Mycroft nodded. “I never told them, but rumor has it Blackshire has a particular weakness for blond women,” he said with a slight smirk. “While you could probably seduce him into answering the most private questions, if he wasn’t drawn to you, it would take longer than I‘m comfortable with. Besides, if she gets discovered, we still bought a few hours to search his house.”

Irene offered a low chuckle as she grinned.

He cracked his knuckles and surveyed the office. “Now let’s get to work m’dear,” he said.

Mycroft had a notebook open and was taking notes when Irene found a safe behind a family portrait

“Find anything?” she asked, as she began to guess the combination of the lock.

Mycroft shook his head. “Shipping records, nothing interesting as of yet. How’s the safe --” he stopped as he heard the _thunk_ of the door unlocking.

He looked up and saw Irene with a smile. “When will people learn not to use their birthdays, anniversaries or important dates as combinations?” she asked.

“Hopefully never,” Mycroft replied. “What’s in there?”

Irene handed a book to him. “Records,” she replied.

Mycroft opened a book and began rummaging about. It was written in cipher, but it was so elementary, he could decode it just by staring at the jumble of letters. In a matter of seconds, his mind shifted the letters around, making words out of the gibberish.

Some of it was the normal smuggling goods -- weapons, liquor and drugs. Towards the back of the book, Mycroft found other information. Lists of ages, sex, date of arrival, weight -- things that indicated Blackshire was involved in more than just the usual smuggling. Occasionally there was a line that stated “Four died on shipment. Must pass word to ensure goods arrive alive.”

He scribbled down as much as possible. “This is interesting,” he said.

“What?” Irene peeked over his shoulder.

“They’re smuggling children,” Mycroft said with a frown.

~*~

Sherlock thought he knew everything. He thought he figured Mary out the first time he met her. He saw how nervous she was in the carriage on the way to here -- despite reassurances from Watson that she’d do the job beautifully. He thought they’d be running out the door at a high rate of speed right now and figuring out another plan.

He hated being wrong. Loathed it. And watching Mary swirl around Lord Blackshire, playing the role of French ingénue to the hilt proved him wrong. 

What was worse was the fact that he was obviously playing right into the ruse. The man was obviously smitten with Mary. 

The worst thing though? Sherlock could feel _something_ that bordered attraction as he watched her flit around Blackshire. He knew she was smart (she was a governess after all) and he knew she was a formidable woman (the first dinner at the Royale was an indicator of that). Normally that would make her an acceptable acquaintance. But she took the one thing he depended on -- Dr. John Watson.

And now she was starting to infringe on his territory -- the criminal cases with Watson were the one thing they shared as companions. This was vexing, to say the very least. 

Sherlock reminded himself to never agree to his brother’s schemes again. Especially with messy outcomes like this.

“Alex,” Mary cooed, snapping him back to attention as she swung around with two glasses of champagne. “Did you hear the lovely news?”

“No Sophie,” he replied, accepting one that she offered. “What is it?”

“We’ve been invited to sit with Lord Blackshire in his box for the Ascot races!” She practically wiggled with excitement.

He sipped the champagne and a false smile slipped over his face. “How lovely,” he said brightly as the band struck up a merry tune. “Shall we dance?” He asked, finishing the glass in one gulp.

Mary nodded, finished her glass and slid into his arms perfectly. She was warm and smelled of roses, Sherlock observed and the merry little smile on her face made him grin slightly.

“ _So you've got him wrapped around your little finger then?_ ” he asked, dropping into French.

“ _Yes_ ,” she replied in French. “ _All I had to do was mention my love for horses. He's offered to show me Blaze King before the race._.”

Sherlock smiled. It was amazing what a woman could compel a man to do sometimes, he mused. Perhaps Mary did have some value, he thought. “ _You seem to be having a lovely time._ ,” he said after a silence.

“ _He's really an arrogant poofter,_ ,” Mary quickly retorted, giggling as she watched Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. “ _Keeps asking what my relationship to you is._.”

“ _Which is_?” Sherlock was surprised to feel a blaze of jealousy bubble forth. Now he understood why Mycroft didn’t want Watson there -- who knows how he would have reacted to see this lech flirting with his wife. Granted, she was playing a role, but it was still unsettling to watch her.

“ _You're my chaperone,_ ,” she replied blithely. “ _My mother doesn't trust me alone in London, given my predilection for wine, horses, baccarat and handsome men_ ,” The last line was practically purred out. 

Was she flirting with him? Sherlock blinked. “ _Good lord woman,_ ,” he said after a moment. “ _I never knew this side of you._ ”

“ _It's not me_ ,” she quickly replied. “ _It's Sophie. I'm just giving him what he wants._ “

“ _Not everything I hope_.”

“ _No, I save everything for special people_ ,” Mary’s smile was puckish and sweet at the same time. It was easy to picture the topless towers of Ilium burning and a thousand ships setting sail for war because of that smile. 

Sherlock had seen her favor Watson with that look once or twice and now understood why his friend was willing to follow her around like a lamb. Her body felt warmer in his arms -- firmer and less delicate than he pictured. Mary’s puckish smile widened and Sherlock could feel a jolt of desire slam through him as the song ended. He could see Lord Blackshire standing behind Mary.

“May I have this dance?” Blackshire asked Mary.

She held out her hand with a giggle. “Oui,” she twittered, then waved at Sherlock as he swept her away.

~*~

Mycroft continued to pore over the ledgers, making notes in his notebook as Irene rummaged through the office.

Then they heard the shrill whistle cut through the air. The pair put everything back in the safe and locked it and began tidying up the office.

“There’s no time,” Irene hissed. “Just go out the window. I will meet up with you. Don’t worry.”

Knowing better than to argue with her, Mycroft opened a window and slid out of it. Before he could grab her, Irene closed the window behind him. Worry cut through him, as he realized that she was stuck in the house. 

_This is Irene, the rational part of his brain spoke up. _She will find a way out. It’s child’s play. Head to the rendezvous point. She will find you.__

Mycroft slid down the alley and met up with Watson. The two watched as the Blackshires exited their carriage and entered the house.

The elder Holmes grabbed Watson’s arm and the two headed down the street. 

“You’re just leaving Irene in there?” Watson asked, an edge of fury warming the worry in his voice.

“She will be fine,” Mycroft said. “Believe me.”

Watson pulled away and stopped moving. Mycroft sidled up to him.

“You realize she’s a thief right?” he growled, staring the man down. 

Watson nodded.

“Her specialty is getting out of dangerous situations like this,” Mycroft said, his tone softening slightly. “Now stop grumbling.”

“This is about as bad as going out with Holmes,“ Watson muttered.

“At least I’m not disguised as a gypsy woman,” Mycroft retorted as the two began wandering dwon the street. 

“And he’s not mooning over you like a lovesick schoolgirl,” Irene said, clapping both of them on the back.

Mycroft grinned. “I knew you’d be able to get out,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist. Even under the dim lamp glow, he observed Watson blushing. Part of him wanted to throttle Irene for throwing this wrench into the mix, but he also knew it was her nature. The woman was attracted to chaos the way he couldn’t pass up a cheese platter after dinner.

“Piece of cake,” Irene said with a grin. “I just wanted to finish tidying up behind you.”

“Lovesick schoolgirl?” Watson stammered. “Holmes never would --”

“Let’s not discuss that,” Mycroft interrupted while quickening his pace. “We’ve got a mission to focus on.”

~*~

The group met up at the Savoy, where Mycroft secured two rooms there for Miss Devereaux and Mr. Hardison. Located next to each other, the rooms were opulent by even Mycroft’s standards and included private baths. It also helped that nearly all the staff were on Mycroft’s budget, which allowed a certain amount of discretion when the group met their after gathering information. 

“Well done,” Mycroft said, after hearing both Mary and Sherlock’s stories. “We have his attention and it’s focused on you, which is where it should be.”

“As well as you,” Mary said with a slight smile. The Watsons were sitting on a couch, with Mary nestled in the good doctor’s arm, blinking sleepily. Mycroft guessed that the night’s activities as well as ample amounts of champagne resulted in a muzzy head. 

“So what’s your scheme brother mine?” Sherlock asked, puffing on his pipe. He was sprawled out over a chair like a large cat. Despite his calm demeanor, Mycroft could sense a certain nervous energy in his younger brother that had him wound up like a badly-tuned violin.

Mycroft leaned back and thought. “Let’s steal the company,” he said with a smile. 

“Are you mad?” Sherlock asked.

“How on earth?” Watson interjected.

“I love the way you think,” Irene remarked.

Mary hiccupped.

Once everyone settled down, Mycroft poured a cup of coffee for everyone, handed them out and then sipped his cup of coffee. “We can do it,” he said. “Blackshire is a prime candidate for this.”

“Are you thinking of the Westminster Spank?” Sherlock asked. 

“The Genevian Possidoble?” Irene added.

“The Marylebone Transfer?” Sherlock continued. “Or the Cherry Tart?”

A silence fell over the room as everyone stopped to stare at Sherlock. 

“It’s like the Lemon Tart, but with polo players,” he said sheepishly.

Irene’s lips pursed slightly as she let out a soft “Oooh,” of appreciation. Mary’s eyebrows shot up and, for a split-second, a wicked grin leaped across her face.

Mycroft took another sip of his coffee. “Nothing that complicated,” he said, with a smile. “It’s a simple plan -- we get him to sign over the company to us. Legally.”

Watson snorted. “You’re nuttier than your brother,” he said. “How the devil do you propose pulling this off?”

Mycroft smiled. “Your wife will do it for us,” he said. “Blackshire’s attention is on her. Judging by the report from Sherlock, his blind spot is a beautiful, charming woman. Let’s exploit that.”

~*~

Being a man who didn’t sleep much, Mycroft left Irene sleeping in his home as he headed to the Diogenes Club to do some business in the late morning.

Along the way, a neatly-dressed, ferret-faced man sidled up next to Mycroft.

“Mycroft Holmes?” the man asked.

Mycroft nodded. “And you are?”

“Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” the man said. “Do you have some time this morning to talk?”

The pair reached the club and Mycroft nodded. “Of course, let’s go into the Stranger’s Room.”

The two men entered the Stranger’s Room. Lestrade sat down in a chair and Mycroft sat across from him. 

“How may I help you Inspector?” Mycroft asked.

“Why are you interested in Lord Blackshire?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“One of our constables saw Dr. Watson walking with you around the Blackshire estate last night.”

“A man can’t take the air with one of his friends at night?”

Lestrade slid forward on his seat. Placing his elbows on his knees, he rested his chin on his hands. “To be blunt, Mr. Holmes, I know you’re not a man who usually deviates from his routine. Why the sudden interest in Blackshire?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Why does the Yard suddenly have an interest in Blackshire?”

Lestrade smiled toothily. “You first.” he said.

~*~

Sherlock knocked on Mary’s door in the morning, after a porter delivered a telegram to his room. He barely slept the night before, with the late night coffee and nervous energy zinging through his system.

Normally he would relish the entire caper. Mycroft, despite how daft the plan appeared, was amazingly adept in making the universe bend to his will and predicting people’s movements. Irene was an excellent thief and could easily succeed at whatever challenge presented. Watson was a loyal friend who Sherlock trusted completely.

But there was Mary -- and unknown and unsettling factor. Who had just opened the door, a dressing gown barely covering her as she blinked at him sleepily. Her hair flowed down her back and a warmth emitted from her that indicated she was roused by his knock.

Amusingly enough, it reminded Sherlock of Watson and how he needed at least one cup of tea in the morning to get his bearings.

“Good morning,” she yawned.

“We have an invitation from Lord Blackshire,” Sherlock said.

Mary blinked some more, waking up instantly. “Really?” she smiled brightly and sliding into the character of Sophie.

“Lord Blackshire has invited us to his home for a garden party,” Sherlock said. 

“How did he know where to find us?”

Sherlock smiled, pleased that he had control for a moment. “I may have said something,” he said with a slight grin.

A responding smile flitted across her face. “Clever boy,” she said. “What time is tea?”

“Three this afternoon.” 

Her face contorted in surprise. “I don’t have time,” she gasped. “I don’t have the right clothing, my hair, I’m not presentable --”

“You have help.”

Sherlock frowned for a moment when he heard Irene’s voice, noting that Mary‘s smile widened, then whipped his head around. 

There was Irene. Dressed as a maid and holding a suitcase and several hatboxes.

“Complements of Mycroft,” she said, bounding past Sherlock. “I’m not sure if everything will fit, given that some of it is mine, but we‘ll make do.”

Mary laughed. “Give me a moment,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “John is not quite presentable.” She shut the door.

Irene leaned up against the wall and offered a lazy grin to Sherlock. “Morning,” she drawled. 

“What the devil are you doing woman?” Sherlock hissed. 

“Helping Mary,” Irene said sweetly. “She’s going to need to look her best for the lord.” Irene eyed him up. “You’d better get ready too. People are going to wonder where your glasses and moustache went.”

Sherlock huffed and headed back to his room. Somehow he felt like he was the butt of a joke, but he wasn’t sure why. He just knew that if Irene was in the same room as Mary, mischief was going to occur.

~*~

Lestrade stood up. “Mr. Holmes,” he said with a cordial, yet icy tone. “I am not pleased with your association with Lord Blackshire. I also do not believe for a moment the story you are telling me. I will warn you right now that if anything occurs within my jurisdiction, I am going to intercede.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed Inspector Lestrade.”

“This is your last chance to cooperate fully with Scotland Yard,” Lestrade stood up, staring down at Mycroft.

Mycroft stared blandly up at the inspector silently, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Lestrade huffed, then donned his hat and coat. “Good day Mr. Holmes,” he said.

“Good day Inspector Lestrade.”

~*~

“What the devil to you mean that Lestrade questioned you?” Watson snapped.

They were at the Savoy. Mycroft came to meet the group before the garden party. 

“He said a constable spotted you and I walking around the Blackshire estate last night,” Mycroft said, sipping on a cup of tea. 

“Did he spot Irene?” Sherlock asked. 

“He didn’t say,” Mycroft replied.

The three men were in the room talking -- rather, arguing about Mycroft‘s news. Mary and Irene were not in the room, since Irene volunteered to help Mary prepare for the party.

“We have to stop this,” Sherlock snapped. “Not only do you have a novice working with us, and attempting to keep Blackshire’s attention on her, but now Scotland Yard is staring at us? Have you lost your bloody mind?”

A smile bloomed on Mycroft’s face.

“He has gone mad hasn’t he?” Watson said, with a bit of edge in his voice. “He’s gone ‘round the bend. Irene’s influence caused his brain to rot.” He glared at Sherlock. “What is it with Holmes men losing their intelligence once Irene comes into the picture?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Sherlock snapped. “At least that succubus is off of me.”

“He’s the one masterminding this whole operation,” Watson retorted.

Mycroft finished his cup of tea. Then he clapped his hands. The two men stopped arguing and stared at Mycroft.

“We are not ending this,” Mycroft said firmly. “It just makes the game more --” he pressed his fingers to his lips and smiled slightly. “Interesting. 

“This isn’t just an intellectual exercise,” Watson spat out. “It’s not only your friend, but us. We all could end up in jail for this.”

Mycroft shook his head. “It will be fine,” he said firmly. “Do not worry. Just continue the plan as I have outlined and we will have success. Since when do you question people Dr. Watson? How often have you trusted my brother with more harebrained schemes?”

He could see Watson’s ears color slightly and his jaw set in a stubborn manner. 

“And you --” he focused on his little brother. “You’re simply approaching this plan from one viewpoint. You’re failing to see everything. Which is unusual for you.” Mycroft arched and eyebrow. “Just what is going on with you?”

Before Sherlock could answer, the door opened and Mary and Irene entered. Mary was in a robin’s egg blue dress. Her hair was up, but a few tendrils of golden curls draped down her neck. Mary’s face was demurely made up and a pink flush spread across her face as she saw the attention focused on her.

Mycroft watched the other men’s reactions. He had to admit, Mary looked beautiful -- enough to keep a man off-centered. Watson definitely agreed, judging by the soft smile on his face and the way he stared at her with obvious adoration.

What was more interesting was seeing his little brother’s reaction. His eyebrows shot up for a moment and for a moment, he bit his lip -- all classic signs of arousal. 

He coughed. “Now that we’re done ogling Miss Devereaux, I’d like to go over the plan.

“Your family is interested in importing things into London,” he told the group. “The legality of it is questionable, but you’re willing to pay quite a bit of money. Word has gotten around that Blackshire Imports are discreet in their dealings,” Mycroft continued. “You’re willing to pay quite a deal of money to get these things imported.”

“What do we deal in?” Mary asked. Her eyes were bright with interest.

“Little bit of this, little bit of that,” Mycroft said. “You’re looking to ship some items in with the cover of importing cheeses. If Blackshire cooperates and does the job to your satisfaction, there will be future dealings, but this is a test run. 

“Don’t give everything away right away,” Mycroft added. “Play coy, be the coquette but also a hard businesswoman.”

“In other words, be a French woman,” Irene said.

Mycroft chuckled. “I take it you advised her a bit?”

Irene nodded.

“Very good,” he said. “Tell him you need time to get the contracts set up for the cheese imports, so you’ll have them at the Ascot races. Mix a bit of pleasure with the business.”

“What if he doesn’t want to talk to a woman regarding business?” Mary asked.

“Mr. Hardison can take over,” Mycroft replied, glancing at Sherlock. It was odd. Sherlock’s face was slightly flush -- unnoticeable to most people, except Mycroft. He was also avoiding looking at Mary for an extended period of time, but kept sneaking glances at her.

“But I’m willing to predict that he’d be willing to deal with you,” he said. “Men often have the viewpoint that a woman doesn’t have the mindset for business and he’s smitten with you. I’d wager he’s willing to do nearly anything to keep you close to him.

Mary nodded, taking in a deep breath. Mycroft could tell she was nervous by her fidgeting, but also excited. It was a gorgeous sight -- like watching the horses at the starting gate eager to begin a race.

“Excellent,” Mycroft said. “Now, you have a coach arriving very soon, so I’m going to take a moment to help my brother get ready. Dr. Watson, I have instructions for you, but they are not as urgent, so just relax here.”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s arm and practically manhandled him into his room before even a protest was emitted.

Shutting the door firmly he stared at his younger brother, who was wide-eyed with surprise.

“Don’t you dare,” Mycroft growled.

“What?” Sherlock went over to put on the moustache and prince-nez glasses. 

“I saw how you looked at her,” Mycroft hissed. “Does your depravity know no bounds? Are you now lusting after your friend’s wife? Or is it just people with the Watson surname?”

There was a look of confusion on Sherlock’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now what should I be doing?” he said, in a vain attempt at distraction.

Mycroft sighed. Of course things wouldn’t be as simple as a transference of affection. Sherlock was never that simple.

“Nothing? Then I shall accompany --” Sherlock couldn’t finish the sentence as Mycroft grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pushed him up against the wall.

“Listen to me brother mine,” Mycroft growled softly. “I normally don’t dare plumb the depths of your heart, but in this case, it’s a threat. I have seen how you look at the good Mrs. Watson and I recognize that look. It’s the same besotted look you favor your doctor. 

“Usually I would ignore this and let you deal with your emotional minefield with the panache you always use for situations like this. However, this is Harry’s neck on the line. If this is blundered because you let your heart get involved in these matters I’ll --”

“What? Kill me?” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft pulled back. A cold smile spread across his face. “No, brother dear,” he said softly. “Nothing that immediate. I will make your life difficult. Any seven-percent solution? Gone. Tickets to the opera and concerts? Good luck and you can also forget about the private box seats. Your favorite tobacco? All the stores are out of it. The Stradivarius?” Mycroft made a _tsk_ sound. “Well, accidents happen.”

He was pleased to see the blood drain from his brother’s face. “You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock hissed.

“Try me,” Mycroft said. “After the mission is done, I don’t care what you do. You can tell them both, don’t tell them or shut yourself up in a monastery in Tibet. But if you fail me brother mine, I will make your life very, very uncomfortable. Are we clear?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good,” Mycroft let go of his brother’s lapels and smoothed them out. “Now go out there and make a business deal, keep your eyes open for anything unusual at this party. And try and keep your imagination from ravishing either Watson.”

Sherlock bolted out the door as Mycroft heaved a sigh. Of course things had to get complicated, he thought with a bitter chuckle. 

~*~

As the height of London’s social season, the Blackshire’s garden party at their estate was thick with the crème de la crème of society. The weather was sunny and gorgeous. Women were in their best frocks and a sumptuous spread was laid out along with amusements such as lawn tennis and croquet.

The whole thing made Sherlock itch. Even though he was more of a social creature than Mycroft, floating amongst the upper crust made him wish he was somewhere -- anywhere else. Preferably back at home with a good dose of seven percent solution and his violin.

Mary must have sensed his discomfort, because she squeezed his arm slightly and whispered in his ear, “Relax Mr. Holmes. You’ve done this before, I trust?”

He nodded. “It doesn’t stop me from disliking the whole thing,” he murmured. “So much frippery.”

She nodded. “But you know how this is --”

“See and be seen --”

“The gossip --”

“The fashion,” Mary sighed blissfully, then caught Sherlock’s expression. “I’m sorry,” she said, blushing slightly. “It’s just rare for me to get these moments.”

Sherlock nodded, instantly understanding the meaning behind the words. But before he could say more, Blackshire approached them.

“Miss Deveareaux,” he said, bowing low. Mary curtsied in response as he took her hand and pressed it to his mouth, staring into her eyes.

“Mr. Hardison,” Blackshire bowed and Sherlock bowed in response. “I’m so happy you made it.”

“We are also,” Mary replied smiling widely. Leaning closer, she whispered in his ear, “I have an interesting business proposition for you, if you would be willing to hear me out.”

Blackshire smiled. “I’m all ears,” he said, before freezing.

Sherlock glanced in the direction Blackshire was looking. His face paled and cold water ran through his veins. It was rare that things would rattle him, but there was Mycroft and Irene, sashaying their way through the party, talking with people and greeting others.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Blackshire said, heading in Mycroft and Irene’s direction.

Mary sidled up to Sherlock. “What the devil are they doing?” she hissed in Sherlock’s ear as she gripped his arm. He could see her pallor pale slightly.

“I have no idea,” Sherlock said. “Just stick with the plan.”

~*~

“Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” Blackshire strode forward, gripping Mycroft’s hand firmly. “I’m surprised that you agreed to come out during Ascot Week. I figured you would be locked up in the midst of protecting Britannia.”

Mycroft smiled slightly grimly. “I would be, but this lovely lady --” he motioned to Irene, resplendent in an emerald green dress and her hair tucked up in a fashionable hat, “insisted that we take the air and sights this week.” Motioning to Irene he said, “Miss Alice White, allow me to introduce Lord Benjamin Blackshire.”

Irene held out her hand, “Enchanted,” she said with a bright smile. Blackshire accepted her hand.

Blackshire moved closer to Mycroft. “So you’re not here because of Culpepper?” he said in a low voice. “Everyone knows you two were friends in University.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Harry always had a hair-trigger temper,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not happy about what happened, but if he chose not to defend himself, there’s not much else I can do.”

“So you’re not here to arrest me?” Blackshire’s smile was cold.

“Not today,” Mycroft smiled back.

“Excellent,” Blackshire said. “Won’t you join us then? We have shrimp.”

Mycroft’s smile warmed. “I do love shrimp.”

~*~

During the lunch, Blackshire approached Mary. “So,” he said with a smile, settling next to her. “What is this business you have for me?”

Mary sipped her champagne and glanced at Blackshire with a slight smile. “I will confess, I’m also in London on behalf of my family for business. We are seeking an import company willing to work with us.”

Blackshire arched an eyebrow. “What are you looking to import?”

“Cheeses,” Mary replied, with a smile, then dropped her voice down low. “And a few other things of an illicit nature. We are seeking someone discreet who is willing to work with us. Our business is expanding across the Chanel and we are seeking an ally in this mission.”

He took a sip of his drink and stared into her eyes. “What you’re asking for isn’t cheap.”

“Lord Blackshire,” Mary leaned forward and smiled winsomely at him. “If this is as big of a success as we believe it is, you will be a very, very rich man.”

Blackshire leaned back in his chair, thinking for a moment. “I’ll let you know,” he said with a slight smile. “But no matter what, I do enjoy talking to you.”

Mary smiled as he left.

~*~

“What the devil are you doing here?” 

Mycroft looked up with a mild smile into Sherlock’s flustered face as he nibbled on a canapé. “I was invited,” he said mildly. “I would suggest you compose yourself before everything is compromised.”

“This isn’t part of the plan,” Sherlock huffed softly, but his features relaxed into a semblance of pleasant conversation. “Where is Watson?”

Mycroft smiled. “Don’t worry about your doctor,” he said. “I’ve given him an assignment. Besides, Irene and I have a purpose,” Mycroft accepted a cup of tea from a servant with a bright smile.

“Which is?”

Mycroft watched as Blackshire approached Irene. “Keep him off balance,” he said softly. “I want your business deal to succeed.” He focused a gaze at Sherlock. “Normally I would let you go and handle things yourself my petite frere, however, I am concerned about your behavior as of late.”

“I can handle this,” Sherlock huffed into his moustache.

“So you say,” Mycroft sipped his tea, then snatched another canapé from a passing servant. “I’m merely concerned about you. Blackshire is not a stupid man and you’ve been blinded by your emotional nature. I spoke with Irene and we both agreed to keep him unsettled as possible to ensure that the deal is made.”

“I can’t believe you consulted with Irene over my emotional state.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s not idle gossip my dear brother,” he said softly. “This is business. And in business, emotions can put us at a disadvantage. Do you trust me?”

There was a long silence as Sherlock twitched his moustache around like a rabbit woffling its nose. “Yes,” he muttered. 

Mary sidled over to the Holmes brothers. “What do you have planned?” she asked Mycroft, with a sweet smile and exquisite manners as she held out her hand for him to shake.

Mycroft continued with the pantomime of shaking hands and introductions. “Blackshire’s pretty content right now,” he said with a smile. “His finances are fairly solid and he could walk away from a deal that smells funny for him. Miss White --” he nodded in Irene’s direction, “and I are here to put him off balance.”

The three watched as Irene tipped her head back and sweet peals of giggles tumbled forth. She lightly touched Blackshire’s arm and smiled sweetly, before glancing at Mycroft and raising a glass to him. Mycroft smiled back and raised his glass to her.

Mary watched Irene and Blackshire talk. “He knows you doesn’t he?” she glanced at Mycroft. “He knows your true nature.”

Mycroft smiled. Dr. Watson had indeed married a perceptive woman, he mused. No wonder his little brother was getting smitten with her. “Indeed,” he said. 

She nodded. “Keep going with the job?” she asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Call this a contingency plan.”

“So this is Plan B?” Mary asked. 

“We’re at Plan G, I believe,” Mycroft replied, then smiled at the genuine laugh that emitted from Mary.

“Just how many contingencies do you have? Mary had a devilish gleam in her eye as they watched Blackshire and Irene talk. “Is there a plan M?”

“Yes, Sherlock dies on plan M,” Mycroft retorted, ignoring the indignant snort from Sherlock.

“I like plan M,” Mary said in a jesting manner. Seeing the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, she patted his arm and kissed his cheek briefly. “You do realize I’m jesting don’t you dear?”

Sherlock’s face was a mix of emotions. On the one hand he was displeased and angry, but his hand stole up to his cheek for a moment. “Of course I do Sophie,” he murmured. “I’m just not sure about him.” His eyes darted to the elder Holmes for a moment.

 

Mycroft grabbed at a glass of punch and another canapé as staff floated past. Glancing over at his brother and seeing the displeasure on his face, Mycroft added, “You two will be splendid. By the end of this party, he’s going to want to cut a deal with you as opposed to thinking about it --”

“How did you know?” Mary’s eyes widened in surprised.

Sherlock’s chuckle had no humor as he sipped his punch. “He’s Mycroft. Omniscience is his specialty.”

~*~

“So what is your true relationship with Mr. Holmes?” Blackshire asked. 

He was as handsome as Mary said, Irene thought. Charismatic too -- no wonder he had so many female friends, she mused. “You’re quite forward aren’t you?” she asked, looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Fortune favors the brave,” he smiled. “I’m more wondering how a walrus like him found such a beautiful gem like yourself.”

Irene tipped her head back and giggled brightly. Glancing over at Mycroft, she saw Mary and Sherlock watching them. Mary‘s expression was neutral, but Irene knew she was studying and processing what was occurring. Sherlock was displeased, but attempting to hide it from everyone. No doubt he didn’t like his big brother coming to muddle with the plans, Irene thought to herself. Mycroft smiled back at her and raised his glass.

Raising her glass slightly she replied, “Mycroft is an old family friend,” Irene said, sipping her drink. “He’s been smitten with me for as long as I can remember.”

“I didn’t think that he had a blind spot,” Blackshire replied, glancing over at Mycroft, who pried himself away from the buffet to examine the lawn tennis game.

Irene giggled. “He’s adorable,” she cooed vapidly. “He’s so generous. The other day he bought me this --” she motioned to the diamond earrings. “He’s such a gentleman.”

Mycroft soon strode over to the pair. “How are you doing Alice?” He smiled at her and ran his hands through his hair in a befuddled manner. “I hope you’re liking the earrings I gave you.”

Irene smiled. “I was just showing Lord Blackshire them,” she giggled. “I still can’t believe you spent so much on me.”

He shrugged. “Nothing’s too good for you my dear,” Mycroft snuck a death glare at Blackshire. “After all, I am quite fond of you.” Mycroft placed a possessive hand on Irene’s arm.

Blackshire pulled away a bit. “If you’ll excuse me --”

“Please don’t!” Irene exclaimed with a slight pout.

“We’ll speak later,” Mycroft said icily, gripping Irene’s arm.

Blackshire circulated around the party, watching out of the corner of his eye as the women he knew as Alice White got into a quiet disagreement with Mycroft. The classic body signs were there -- crossed arms, glares, furrowed brows and on occasion Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. 

It was clear to Blackshire that whatever feelings Mycroft had for Alice, she didn’t feel the same. Perhaps that could be something exploited for something interesting during the party, he thought with a grin. Mycroft Holmes may be a brilliant mind, but he still had his weak points, Blackshire thought, with some amusement.

~*~

“Is he still staring at us?” Mycroft hissed.

“Yes,” Irene pouted. “He’s been preening like a peacock in front of me.”

Mycroft huffed a sigh. “Excellent my dear,” his expression became stoic as a brow furrowed in anger. “Get close to him. I hear there’s a card game starting soon that I’d like to participate in. If you can get him in there, that would be ideal. We need to put the pressure on him,” he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Irene stamped her foot and leaned forward into Mycroft’s face. “Do you realize he called you a walrus?” she hissed.

Mycroft shrugged and pulled her closer. Staring into her eyes he replied, “Beware of my tusks,” he growled.

“Oh I know what I’d like to do with your tusks,” Irene snapped back. For the barest moment, a lascivious smile tugged at the corners of her pretty mouth.

Mycroft blinked and turned his face away for a moment. His face twisted into a grimace as he suppressed the urge to laugh. Letting go of her he whispered in her ear, “You’ll pay for that one my dear.”

“Promises, promises,” she snapped and turned away, stalking off to another area of the party.

Mycroft watched her leave, his brow furrowed in anger and his hand covering his face. If people could have seen his mouth, it was contorted in a gleeful grin. 

It was obvious that Blackshire was convinced, judging by the way he slowly made his way over to Irene. 

“How does she do it?” Mary asked, as she approached Mycroft.

“The same way you do,” he said. “You’ve got all your womanly charms to keep men off-center.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. Mycroft could tell that she didn’t quite believe him and he smiled slightly. 

“Do you realize how unsettling it is for a man to have the complete, undivided attention of a beautiful woman?” he asked. “Most men are unaccustomed to it and don’t know how to react. They become playthings, offering presents --”

“Like those diamond earrings?”

Mycroft snorted. “I think she palmed those off of someone in Bern,” he said.

Mary’s mouth quirked into a smile and she began giggling brightly. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, “given that John and Mr. Holmes warned me about her.”

“Irene Adler is the greatest actress when she’s not on stage,” Mycroft said softly, his voice tinged with affection. 

~*~

“Would you like a drink my dear?” Blackshire offered a glass of punch to Irene, who was watching the croquet match with a bit of anger on her face.

“Yes,” she said, accepting the glass from him. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Blackshire moved closer, “That Mr. Holmes was a bit upset with you.”

Irene sighed heavily. “He’s so jealous,” she said. “He was asking about you and I simply told him we were getting acquainted. Of course, he thought something else entirely. He’s such a fool and now he’s jealous and wants to prove himself better than you.”

“Really? How so?”

Irene looked at him. “There’s talk about a card game,” she said. “Some of the people are discussing a poque game and Mycroft said he was interested.”

Blackshire’s grin was predatory. “He is pretty fond of you isn’t he, little Alice?”

Irene nodded. 

“What if we had some fun at his expense?”

Irene’s smile became wicked. “How so?”

The lord leaned over and whispered in her ear, “What if you just told him you were sorry, nestled yourself near him and told me what his cards were?” Blackshire whispered. “We’d have a little fun at his expense.”

Irene nodded. “But he’d find out it was me and he’d be so upset.”

“We’ll keep it simple,” Blackshire said. “A closed fist means it’s a bad hand, but an open hand means that he’s got a good hand. So if he had nothing but some low cards?”

Irene took her hand into a fist and scratched her neck.

“That’s my girl,” Blackshire smiled. “Do this and I’ll offer you a pretty necklace to go with those earrings. How would you like that?”

Irene giggled. “I would love that,” she squealed.

Mycroft ambled over to the pair. “Lord Blackshire,” he said. “There’s a few men discussion a poque game in one of the tents over there -- would you be interested?”

Blackshire glanced at Irene, “I wouldn’t mind a little gambling distraction,” he said. “Perhaps lighten your wallet a bit?”

Mycroft grabbed Irene’s hand. “I don’t know about that,” he said confidently. “Alice is my good luck charm.”

Irene giggled brightly and kissed Mycroft on the cheek. “I would love to watch a card game,” she said breathily. “It would be so fascinating.”

“By all means then,” Blackshire said. “I’m interested in a few rounds.”

~*~

“Gentlemen and lady,” Mycroft said, nodding to Sherlock, Mary and Blackshire. Irene was sitting next to him, almost improperly close and her arm lightly resting on his. “The game is _poque_ , standard five-card draw.“ Mycroft shuffled the deck. “Two card draw, no cards wild.”

Mycroft dealt out the cards and the table settled into an amicable silence. Blackshire’s eyes flitted over to Irene and he saw that her hand was a small fist resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. The first hand went to Blackshire. 

As time passed, Blackshire’s winnings grew, as well as his confidence. He also observed that the woman he knew as Sophie Devereaux was an able card player, playing with a bit of confidence, even though she was the lone woman. As for her chaperone, Mr. Haridson seemed flummoxed, losing hands and folding most of the time or betting foolishly.

Alice also performed to his expectations -- she indicated Mycroft’s hands with a discreet movements that were perceptible only to him. However, Mycroft was a fairly conservative player, which made Blackshire’s wins not as enjoyable.

Well, he played conservatively until he saw Alice wink at Blackshire. 

Barely perceptible, Mycroft pushed Alice’s hand off of him. “Darling,” he said in a low tone, “why don’t you go get me some refreshment please? I’m also willing to bet that Lord Blackshire would like something from you.”

The last line was venomous.

Blackshire nodded. “I wouldn’t mind some refreshment,” he said. “Perhaps Miss Devereaux? Mr. Hardison?”

The two nodded in agreement as Alice scurried off to find someone to bring them something to drink. From there, the game progressed, with the tide turning against Blackshire. First Miss Deveraux had a winning streak, then Mycroft’s luck seemed to change after his banished Miss White from the table. 

Blackshire tried to remain calm, but he could feel his temper rising as his pockets emptied. For some reason, it appeared that Mycroft’s luck was changing, damn him. 

Alice soon returned with a servant bearing the drinks. She leaned in close to Blackshire and handed him his drink, locking eyes with him. The girl was forward -- he could feel her hand resting on his arm.

“I hope you like this,” she said softly. “Your maid said it’s the Scotch you prefer.”

“Thank you Alice,” he said, staring into her eyes. 

Mycroft coughed and both of them looked at him. “Can we continue with the game?” he said in a peevish manner.

Blackshire nodded.

“If you would Alice dear, please stand a bit away,” Mycroft said icily.

Alice nodded, backing away a bit and standing behind Blackshire, but not before her hands knotted up into little fists as if she would strike Mycroft.

“Raise,” Mycroft said, irritation furrowing his brow. “Ten pounds.”

“Call and raise,” Miss Devereaux said. “Fifteen pounds.”

“Match,” Mr. Hardison said.

“Raise,” Blackshire said, tossing some notes into the growing pile, “Twenty pounds.”

That continued for awhile. Blackshire’s urge to win was getting stronger as he saw Alice stand behind Miss Devereaux and smile in his direction winsomely. Then she scratched her nose, her small hand forming a fist. 

Then she moved beside Mr. Hardison, offering him a cup of tea. Glancing in his direction, Alice tugged at her ear, a small fist circling the diamond encrusted lobe. Then she moved back to watch the game.

Mycroft drew two cards, then discarded two. Mr. Hardison drew one and discarded one, while Miss Devereaux stayed with what she had.

Blackshire began to feel confident, staring at his cards. He had a full house, with a pair of kings and three sevens -- that would be a difficult hand to beat under most circumstances. And so, he continued betting matching everyone’s raise and also raising the bet -- until he was out of notes.

Betting continued for awhile until Blackshire glanced in his wallet. There was no money. However, he estimated that there was at least three hundred pounds on the table -- a healthy sum of money. And Mycroft Holmes’ pride on the line. 

Then Alice smiled a sweet smile at him. 

“I’m still in,” he said at his turn, “however, I’m out of money at this moment. Would people trust my word?”

Mycroft nodded, as well as Miss Devereaux. Mr. Hardison looked slightly upset, but glanced at his charge, who shot him a pleading glance. With that, he nodded.

Betting proceeded until there was approximately five hundred pounds on the table. That’s when Mr. Haridson folded. Miss Devereaux soon followed.

“Well Mycroft,” Blackshire grinned. “It’s down to you and me, my friend.”

Betting progressed until the pot grew to a thousand pounds. Neither side would capitulate. It was apparent to Blackshire that there was more at stake than mere money. Judging by the way Alice was watching the game, Blackshire sensed that her affections were also on the line.

Mycroft nodded. “Call it?” he asked.

Blackshire nodded, presenting his hand. “Full house -- pair of kings, three sevens.” He smiled gleefully.

Before he could collect, Mycroft presented his hand. “Also a full house -- pair of twos, three queens.”

Blackshire leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. “Ah,” his face became a stone mask and the color drained from his face.

Mycroft collected the winnings with a slight smirk. “Also you owe me five hundred pounds,” he grinned at Blackshire. “I’ll collect my winnings at the Ascot Race tomorrow, or else you can expect me at your offices in two days.”

He stood and looked at Alice. “Miss White,” he said, proffering an arm. 

Alice took his arm meekly and the two walked away.

Blackshire leaned back. _Where on earth am I going to get five hundred pounds during Ascot Week?_ he thought to himself. A morose silence hit the table.

Realizing that Miss Devereaux and Mr. Hardison were still at the table, Blackshire turned to them. “Do you mind if we discuss business?” he asked after a moment.

~*~

So how did Mycroft pull off that win? Was it luck or skill? 

Mycroft doesn’t bet on chance, as Sherlock and Irene would say. He ensures he will win. And this was the case also, when he met with Mary and Sherlock before the game.

“Are we clear?” Mycroft glanced at Mary and Sherlock. He touched his throat.

“Kings,” they both said.

Tugged the ear.

“Queens.”

Rubbed his left eye.

“Jacks”

Ran his hand through his hair.

“Ace.”

Mycroft scratched his nose. 

“A pair.”

Rub of the chin.

“Three of a kind.”

A smiled bloomed on his face. “Excellent. That should be enough for us to figure things out. I don’t want to overload you too much.” Mycroft didn’t doubt for a minute that his brother would instantly remember these tricks -- after all, it was the same system they used when they were younger to cheat sweets out of their nurse. 

Even though Mary was catching on and proving her worth, Mycroft didn’t want to tax her memory too much. Hence the stripped down system.

“Irene’s going to be busy helping our friend, but she’ll assist us whenever possible. This is a way to convey information about what‘s in our hands. The goal right now is to strip him of all his money. However, by the end, I want him to owe me a large sum -- something he can‘t get easily.”

The two nodded. 

And so, the game progressed with the three of them conveying information back and forth through quick signals like a quick scratch on the nose or a running of the hand through the hair. Blackshire’s eyes were rooted on Irene, who was giving him signals of what Mycroft’s hand was, so he didn’t notice the barely perceptible actions.

True to plan, Mycroft noticed Blackshire’s confidence and greed growing. Soon the man would be ripe for the taking. When he was ready, he noticed Irene’s communication with Blackshire and then banished her from the table to get refreshments.

Irene rested her hand on Blackshire’s arm. A quick glance of his cards told her that he had a full house, kings as the pair. 

“I hope you like this,” she said softly. “Your maid said it’s the Scotch you prefer.”

“Thank you Alice,” he said, staring into her eyes. 

Mycroft coughed and both of them looked at him. “Can we continue with the game?” he said in a peevish manner.

With Blackshire’s attention on Mycroft’s face, Irene scratched her nose and rubbed her chin.

Mycroft glanced at his cards. He had a pair of twos and a pair of queens. 

“If you would Alice dear, please stand a bit away,” Mycroft said icily and betting commenced. When Blackshire’s attention was rooted on Irene, he tugged his ear, hoping that his comrades would understand what he was trying to communicate.

Irene moved behind Blackshire, then circled the table. She saw Mary flick her hand backwards, offering a queen. She moved behind Mary and then, making eye contact with Blackshire, formed her hand into a fist and scratched her nose as she took the card away from Mary.

She then moved next to Sherlock, handing him a cup of tea with the card under the saucer. Glancing at Blackshire, she tugged at her ear, forming a fist. 

Sherlock sipped his tea and slid the card out from the bottom of the saucer. From there, he slid the card over to Mycroft’s lap, where the elder Holmes hid the card in his large hand and brought it up to scratch behind his neck before moving the cards nervously between his two hands as he drew two cards. From there, it was simple to mix the queen in with the other cards and discard the two he had drawn.

And thus, two pairs became a full house, queens high card. Mycroft Holmes does not like to leave things to chance.

~*~

“So we are agreed then?” Mary asked Blackshire. “A shipment within a week -- cheeses of a high quality and weapons of higher standards?” She leaned forward, placing both hands on the table and sipping a bit of tea. “In return, we will give you, one thousand pounds, when the contracts are signed tomorrow and ten percent of the sale of the items.”

Blackshire nodded. “That’s all well and good,” he said. “But I don’t want these items in my warehouse for long -- you saw Mr. Holmes. That man is well connected to British intelligence. I want those items out the day they arrive.”

Sherlock glanced at Mary. She had gone pale for a moment and he could almost sense her stammering.

“Lord Blackshire,” he said, quickly, before she could answer. “We do have buyers lined up. We just need to get the items in the country discreetly.”

Blackshire stared at them for the moment. “Do you?”

Sherlock nodded. “If you’re so concerned, we can have them come to the Ascot Race tomorrow,” he said.

Mary, to her credit, didn’t break. She took a deep breath. “Are you sure my dear?” she asked softly. “Getting them on such short notice --”

“Won’t be a problem,” Sherlock interjected. “They’re here for Ascot week also. No one wants to miss the horse races.”

Blackshire smile was humorless. “Excellent,” he said. “I look forward to meeting your buyers.” He stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The two watched as Blackshire wandered off to talk to guests.

“How the devil are we going to do this?” Mary whispered. Sherlock noticed that she now had a tight grip on his arm -- partially in fear.

Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft will handle this,” he said. “I’m sure it’s in a contingency plan somewhere.”

“I just hope it’s not after Plan M,” Mary replied.

~*~

“What did you replace your brains with? Pudding?” Mycroft snapped at his younger brother. 

They were at Mycroft’s Pall Mall home. The group had met there in the evening after Sherlock and Mary left the party. Sherlock and Mary brought the news that Blackshire was willing to make the deal, but with one provision.

Gathered in his office, Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, glaring at his brother. Sherlock was standing in front of him, while Watson and Mary were sitting on the settee near him. Irene was sitting in one the chairs in front of the fire, watching the scene dispassionately. 

Sherlock’s expression was impassive, but it was obvious he was not relishing the dressing-down from his older brother.

“He was cautious about the deal and mentioned wanting to get the goods out of his warehouse immediately --” 

“That doesn’t mean you arrange for him to meet the buyers,” Mycroft cut him off. “Who are we going to find to play that role? The only other person who Blackshire hasn’t seen yet is Doctor Watson.”

“He could do a perfectly adequate job,” Sherlock interjected.

Mycroft snorted. “No offense to your dear doctor,” the words were spit out with some venom. “He is an adept marksman, excellent fighter, but utter shite at deception. Also, where else are we going to find another buyer to work with him? You said there were buyers,” Mycroft placed a heavy emphasis on the _s_ in buyers, “Not buyer. Where are we going to get another one now? Who else would you trust to accomplish this? Everyone I trust is here in this room.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned red. “You trusted Mary -- a mere novice to accomplish this, why not Watson?”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. “Do you really want me to say it?” he growled. 

“Say what?” Watson rose from his seat. With two quick steps he was at the desk, standing over Mycroft. Mycroft leaned back in his chair and stared up at Watson nonplussed. “You’ve been mad enough to use my wife as bait for a rogue and left me here cooling my heels and worrying about my wife’s and my friend’s safety.”

Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who was turning red, then returned his gaze to Watson. “I can’t help it if Blackshire’s weaknesses do not run towards army doctors with moustaches and limps, unlike other people I know,” he said placidly. “Your wife, however, fits his desires perfectly.”

He could see Mary turning red in the back. 

Watson took another step forward, towering over Mycroft. “I also do not appreciate your slander of my friend’s talents,” he growled. 

“My brother,” Mycroft snapped. “Seems to be more emotionally distracted than usual. I can’t help but question if his brains have become tapioca thanks to this little pickle.” Sherlock flinched slightly at the insult. 

“You utter cad --” Watson was about to cross the desk, when Irene intervened, placing herself between the two men. 

“Doctor, Mycroft,” she exclaimed, raising her hands. “Stop now.”

Irene’s eyes lit on Mary who was standing in the back, her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We are close to the goal,” Irene said, pushing Watson back a bit. Glancing back at Mycroft, she shot him an icy stare. “We will make do.”

Watson stepped back and stood next to Sherlock, who was now flanked by both husband and wife.

“Doctor,” Irene said, “You’re in play as one of the buyers. What time are you to meet with Blackshire?” she asked, glancing at Mary and Sherlock.

“Noon,” Mary said softly. “We will see Blaze King and the races will start at three.”

Irene nodded. “Very well,” she said. “We have time to coach your husband,” she said softly. “Just head back to your lodgings. I’ll meet up with you later to help assist with matters. In the meantime, I suggest we all take a break until cooler heads prevail.” She glanced at Mycroft. “I will handle this one.”

The three nodded and left the room. 

There was a long silence as Irene went to the sideboard, poured two glasses of Scotch and approached Mycroft.

Irene studied him. Mycroft’s brow was furrowed and a dark mood had settled on his face. 

“You know, you were a lot more fun when we were getting shot at and on the run,” she said softly, handing him a glass.

He glanced up at her. “I don’t understand how he made that mistake,” he said. “Sherlock is smarter than that.”

“You know exactly why,” Irene reached over and toyed with his hair. “And this situation isn’t helping things one bit.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, savoring her touch. “Of course he doesn’t do anything in a simple fashion. He’s in love with his best friend. Who is married,” he grumbled. “Then he starts becoming infatuated with his friend‘s wife. Why does he does this?”

Irene chuckled. “Why do you trust me?”

“You know why,” Mycroft shot back. “Besides, it’s not about us or Sherlock’s emotional state. It’s about the job. I trust you pure and simple because you can focus no matter what. Sherlock’s mind is muddled. Introducing the Watsons was a mistake -- he‘s losing his focus”

Irene’s grip on his hair tightened and she pulled on it slightly in exasperation. “It’s a minor setback Mycroft. And putting the doctor into play won’t hurt,” she reasoned. “He is a smart man. We can coach him. It’s not difficult and it may be more beneficial to help Mary and Sherlock, should something go wrong.”

Mycroft winced in pain at her tug. “But he said _buyers_ ,” he muttered.

“So bring in someone else,” Irene said. “You’ve got to know someone in this town who you can either blackmail or bargain with.” She pulled away from him and kissed the top of his head. “Now, I’m going to the Savoy to help them. Telegraph if you get the second buyer. If not, we can fake things,“ Irene leaned down to whisper in his ear. “What makes you so sure this is a disaster?“

Mycroft watched in sullen silence as Irene sashayed out of the room. He could hear her heels click down the hall as she left his house. Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling before loosening his collar and sipping his Scotch. 

Long ago, Sherlock said he didn’t enjoy emotional entanglements because of the distraction they posed to his work. At the time, Mycroft scoffed at Sherlock’s words, calling him overdramatic. But this recent development made him wonder if his younger brother was speaking the truth.

_“What makes you so sure this is a disaster?“_ He closed his eyes and laughed. Trust Irene to turn the Tao against him when his mind was muddled. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft calmed himself and began mulling over the situation.

Slowly an idea blossomed in his head. Striding out of the office, he donned his coat and hat and motioned for a cab.

Getting inside, he gave directions to a typical London house in an unremarkable part of the city. He paid the cab, then ambled up the steps and rang the bell.

A harried looking woman opened the door and stared at him. “Yes?’ she asked. 

“Is Inspector Lestrade available?” Mycroft smiled his most charming smile. 

The woman studied him for a bit. “One moment,” she said, closing the door slightly. 

Mycroft stood on the stoop, figuring out the odds of the plan working. It would either be a gigantic success or an absolute failure. Then the door opened and there was Lestrade, looking a bit peevish at him.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said.

“Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said. “I am reconsidering my previous stance.”

“Are you now?” Lestrade folded his arms.

“What if I told you I could get Blackshire to confess to not only smuggling but also murder?“ Mycroft said.  
“And you wouldn’t have to do a damn thing but sit there and listen?”

An eyebrow arched questioningly. “You’d better come in Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said. “I’d love to hear how you came up with this bargain.”

~*~

“He’s really displeased isn’t he?” Mary asked Irene.

Irene shrugged. “Mycroft will recover,” she said. “We’re so close.”

It was late at night and the scene at the Savoy was fraught with tension. Watson seemed nervous at assuming another role other than the adventure-loving sidekick of the Great Detective. Sherlock’s emotions were all muddled and Mycroft’s explosion hadn’t helped alleviate things. The poor man was incredibly distracted, Irene observed. 

Mary was the only one, along with Irene who seemed to be focusing on the task at hand, offering encouragement as Irene coached Watson on how to handle himself. But after awhile, it was clear to everyone that some rest was necessary.

Leaving the two men in the room, Irene and Mary were standing on the balcony of the hotel, watching the night below. 

“He’s normally not like this is he?” Mary asked. “Sherlock is more focused at times isn’t he?”

“Sherlock made an elementary mistake,” Irene said softly. “He overreached. I think he’s just been distracted as of late.” She stared out into the foggy night, watching a few lone people wander the streets. For a moment she debated about telling Mary the reason, but decided against it. No point in getting everyone distracted, she thought to herself. “The problem with those two is that they don’t know how to use their emotions to their advantage.”

The corners of Mary’s mouth turned up in a smile. “All is not lost is it?”

Irene couldn’t help but smile in response. “No,” she said. “This is all acting. You can channel those emotions into other areas to make things more convincing.”

She noticed a light flicker in Mary’s eyes. Apparently an idea had been planted in the other woman’s mind. But what it was, Irene decided not to investigate further. The night had been fraught enough with mental landmines. Whatever it was could wait, she decided.

“I am going to be off then,” Irene said, standing. “We will meet at Mycroft’s in the morning to go over the plan one more time and then it’s off to the races.”

“One quick review though,“ Mary said. “We have two sets of contracts -- one is what Blackshire expects. The other is the signing over the company to Mycroft. The trick is to let Blackshire think he’s signing a contract to import cheeses.”

Irene grinned. “You are a bright woman,” she said. “But I suspected that since you can keep Sherlock off balance.”

“I’ve got a charge who thinks its funny to try and deceive me at every turn,“ Mary retorted. “One gets savvy after awhile.”

Irene laughed. “Indeed. Tomorrow then?”

 

Mary nodded. “Don’t worry about those two,” she said, motioning to Sherlock and Watson, who were sitting in the room, smoking in morose silence. “I can handle them.”

Irene nodded in return. “I know you can,” she offered a crooked smile. “You’ve handled them ably before.”

“Like dealing with naughty schoolchildren,” Mary said as Irene joined her in a laugh.

~*~

Sherlock had fallen in a fitful slumber sprawled on the settee. He, Mary and Watson spent part of the night talking after Irene left, running through the scheme. In addition, Sherlock spent some time trying to teach both Mary and Watson some sleight of hand tricks. After awhile, it was evident that some rest was necessary to be sharp for the final act.

The past three days had been agonizing for him. Not only was he dealing with his big brother undermining him at every turn, but what was worse was that Mycroft was right. Sherlock knew he was distracted by his proximity to the Watsons. He knew he made elementary mistakes. Having Irene step in as a smoothing influence on his brother, while welcoming, was also still unsettling. 

And now he was having the filthiest dreams about both Mary and Watson. He twitched slightly in his sleep, imagining the two of them, their hands on him, stroking his skin and whispering the most debauched things in his ear.

He could feel arousal igniting in his nether regions and he twisted his torso, wishing it would go away, but at the same time, savoring every moment. He could feel the sensation of Watson’s moustache tickling his ear as heated words were whispered, followed up by a lick and a nibble on the lobe.

It wasn’t until he felt the flies of his pants open and the sensation of a small cool hand sliding down to handle his hard prick that Sherlock’s eyes flew open. 

_Apparently it wasn’t a dream,_ was the only coherent thought he had as he stared down at Mary, who was gently stroking his shaft with an intent stare. 

“He’s awake,” Sherlock heard Watson said. His head whipped around and saw his friend, staring at him with a sinful grin.

“What on earth are you doing to my person?” Sherlock managed to rasp out, as Mary stroked him lightly. 

“Here’s the thing,” Mary said thoughtfully, staring up at him with a businesslike gaze. “It’s obvious to everyone that you’re under an extreme amount of emotional distress. What the reasons are, I can only guess. However, my past experience has shown me that when John --” she nodded at her husband, “is under duress, sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands.” With that she stroked him as her other hand slid between his legs to massage his balls, relishing the way his hips twisted with her handiwork.

Sherlock glanced over at his friend. “She has a point,” Watson replied. “I find myself feeling better sometimes after a bit of a toss.”

“I see,” he replied. “And you have no objections to this?”

“If I objected would I be doing this?” Watson’s teeth grazed his neck, just as Mary took Holmes in her mouth, her tongue flicking over his head.

Sherlock arched his back and gasped. “I can see merit to this,” he groaned, hands scrabbling for purchase on the settee. “By all means, if this is to help with the mission, do go on.”

In the back of his mind, Sherlock realized that the three of them were taking things to uncharted waters, but at that moment, with the two of them working to obliterate all coherent thought from his brain, Sherlock didn’t really care. There would be time to discuss this later, he decided. Right now, if this was to help him focus, the great detective decided he could suffer through it for the greater good.

~*~

The Royal Ascot was the highlight of the London social scene. Hundreds of people, impeccably dressed, gathered at the Ascot Racecourse to see and be seen. And perhaps watch horses race. But there were five people there with revenge on their mind, instead of the social scene or horses. 

“Bonjour, Lord Blackshire,” Mary smiled at Blackshire. She was dressed impeccably in an elegant ivory gown with royal blue trim and wide-brimmed hat. Both Sherlock and Watson previously voiced their appreciation for how she was dressed before their meeting with Mycroft.

Sherlock stood next to her, quietly taking in the scene. After last night’s activities, he did find his mental state somewhat clearer -- or at least clear enough to comprehend what was being asked of the three of them. It was funny how correct Mary was that he needed whatever last night was. He refused to ponder it further until the end of the race.

Mycroft noticed a change from the past three days, and Sherlock knew he noticed, but thankfully nothing was said. Sherlock wasn’t sure how on earth he could explain that one to his brother.

But standing next to Mary in a morning coat, cravat and top hat, Sherlock felt overdressed, but closer to normal than he had felt the past few days.

“Miss Devereaux,” Blackshire smiled at her. He bowed slightly to Sherlock. “Mr. Hardison.”

Sherlock bowed back. “We contacted the buyers and they agreed to come,” he said softly. “They should be here very soon.”

With that, Watson and a ferret-faced man rounded the corner. Both of them were also dressed impeccably in dove grey morning suits and top hats. Watson’s limp was exaggerated slightly and he leaned on his cane for support.

“Miss Devereaux,” Watson waved to Mary. “We’ve made it. Devil of a time getting around and finding you. Everyone’s wearing all these big hats and Sterling --” a faint Scottish burr tinged his words as he poked his companion with his cane, “kept peeking under them, looking for you.”

Sherlock coughed slightly. “Lord Blackshire, may I introduce Mr. Eliot Spencer,” he motioned to Watson. “And Mr. Jim Sterling,” he motioned to the ferret-faced man, he, Mary and Watson knew as Inspector Lestrade. 

~*~

Blaze King was a magnificent chestnut stallion, with large brown eyes that stared placidly at the people standing in front of them. Mary kept patting the horse on its side, cooing to it in French as the men stood to the side, watching the horse.

“So how do you know Miss Devereaux?” Blackshire asked Watson.

Sherlock’s gaze darted over to his friend and he mentally hoped that Watson would remember all the coaching he received. Any hint of a lie would cause the entire thing to come crashing down.

Watson shrugged. “Old family friends,” he said softly. 

“Where are you located?” Blackshire said. “I’ve never heard of you or --” he nodded at Lestrade. “Mr. Sterling.”

“Edinburgh,” Watson rasped. 

“Awfully far to have these items imported to London then brought to Scotland,” Blackshire remarked.

Watson shrugged. “We’re looking to expand the business in Edinburgh,” he replied. “Sophie’s connections promised to help us and it’s more discreet to bring things in from London than directly into Edinburgh, where spies can spread the word of what we’re up to.”

Blackshire nodded. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief internally. Mycroft’s guess that Blackshire wouldn’t know about people beyond London was correct. 

Mary stroked the horse gently on the side of the face and giggled. Blackshire turned to look at her with undisguised attraction on his face. 

“I’m surprised you and Miss Devereaux haven’t --” his voice trailed off into a leer as he stared at her. “She’s a very attractive woman.”

Sherlock saw Watson’s eyes narrow for a brief moment. Thankfully Blackshire’s eyes weren’t on him, but instead, on Mary.

“Personal rule,” Watson replied. “Never shit where you eat. Besides, my wife would have my balls in a wringer for that one.”

Blackshire looked at him, first in shock at the cursing, then he began to laugh. “Wise business rules,” he said. “Come, they need to prepare Blaze King for the race. Shall we get some refreshment?”

The men nodded. 

“I’ll go fetch her,” Sherlock said, then headed over to Mary. Who immediately hooked him into petting the stallion. 

The three men watched them for awhile, before Watson and Lestrade moved in closer. 

“No offense intended Lord Blackshire, but sometimes Sophie gets a bit too over-enthusiastic in choosing her allies,” Watson said softly. “How do we know you’re trustworthy?”

Blackshire chuckled. “You could ask around London -- I’ve managed to corner the smuggling market here without the Yard suspecting me at all,” he answered.

“That’s not what I heard,” Lestrade muttered.

Blackshire shot him a look. “Really Mr. Sterling?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I remember reading about Mr. Bellamy’s death,” he replied blandly. “Quite the sensation in London.”

“It was a tragic case of murder.” Blackshire’s expression was unreadable.

“Odd one at that,” Watson replied. “A pub owner from Bern coming all the way to London to murder a bookkeeper? With no motive? And how did you keep the Yard from finding out what was going on during their investigations?” Watson’s moustache quirked with a slight smile. “That must’ve been a clever work on your part. Or you’re a luckier man than the rest of us.”

“Call it luck. Part of it was that Mr. Culpepper never defended himself,“ Blackshire retorted. He then leaned forward and his voice dropped. “Bellamy was reporting to the government,” he said softly. “Something had to be done.”

Blackshire pointed to his cane. “Air gun. Can shoot from a long range silently. Eliminates potential problems like Mr. Bellamy.”

Lestrade chuckled grimly. “Clever boy,” he said.

Before more could be said, Sherlock and Mary bounded over. Her face flush with excitement and her voice had a breathy quality. “Lord Blackshire,” she said with a winsome smile. “Blaze King is indeed a magnificent beast.”

“I’m pleased you think so,” he said with a smile.

“But now it’s time for business.“ Mary took Sherlock’s arm and her smile faded slightly. “The main reason why we are here. Are you satisfied meeting Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sterling?”

Blackshire nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You all are invited to my box for the races though.”

“We’d love to,” Watson replied.

The five of them headed to Lord Blackshire’s box. Along the way, they saw Mycroft, talking with a trainer about a black mare. Mycroft’s eyes locked with Blackshire and he tipped his hat almost imperceptibly. 

Blackshire nodded back, and the group continued to his box, where a lovely spread was set out. “Relax and enjoy yourself,” he said to the group. “I need to circulate a bit, but will return for the race.”

The four nodded and sat at a table. The group were immediately served champagne and cakes and pastries appeared as if out of thin air. During that time, it was clear Sherlock was drinking quite a bit -- downing several glasses of champagne. Whether it was to steady his nerves or not, no one could honestly tell.

Soon Blackshire returned to the group.

“Are you satisfied Lord Blackshire?” Mary asked. “You’ve met our buyers and I trust, extracted their promise that the goods won’t remain in your warehouses for long?”

Watson nodded. “We have some people ready to bring everything back,” he said. “Just telegram us the arrival date and we should have people there within a day.”

“And the money?” he asked.

Mary brought up her purse and opened it. Inside it was stuffed with notes. “A thousand pounds,” she said. “Yours for the taking. The cheeses -- and other goods -- will be in your warehouse next week. Mr. Sterling and Mr. Spencer will have them out within the day of arrival.”

Sherlock opened his coat pocket and handed him the contract. “And to make everything aboveboard -- the contracts for shipping the cheeses,” he said, handing the contracts to Blackshire for his perusal.

This is where things got tricky, Sherlock mused. They needed an adequate distraction. He glanced over at Mary, downing another glass of champagne and then did something he never thought he’d do. Or rather, he never picture himself doing until this entire mess occurred.

He reached over, grabbed Mary by the shoulders and pulled her onto his lap. Muttering something about the moon in June in French, he mashed his mouth to hers. Mary’s mouth never softened and she let out a squeak of surprise and indignation, but his hands slid around her waist and kept her firmly planted on his lap, despite her wiggling about. One of his hands wound through her hair, knocking her hat off and backwards, causing glasses to spill and the contracts to scatter.

The kiss itself wasn’t erotic, given that Mary was squealing indignantly under him. Sherlock could hear a low chuckle from the three men and tittering from the women around them as Mary finally pulled herself away and stared at him, chest heaving and eyes wide -- with arousal or anger, he wasn’t sure.

Then she slapped him. _Definitely anger,_ he thought. Glancing over, he could see Watson gathering up the contract and switching the paperwork about.

“Go,” hissed Mary. “Get out of here and leave. I do not want to talk to you right now and we will discuss things later.”

Sherlock nodded., putting a hand to his cheek. Standing up, he muttered. “I am sorry for my actions,” and then left the table.

Mary turned to Blackshire, who had her hat in his hands. Tidying her hair as best as possible and ignoring the scandalized whispers around her, Mary donned the hat and smiled sweetly at him. “I’m so sorry about that,” she cooed, putting her hand on his arm. “I do not know what got into Mr. Hardison, but I apologize for his behavior.”

Watson handed her the contracts. “Thank you Mr. Spencer,” she said. “Are they to your satisfaction Lord Blackshire?”

Blackshire nodded. Flourishing a pen, he signed the contracts and handed Mary a copy of them. In return, she placed her purse in his lap. Blackshire folded up his copy and placed it in his suit coat pocket.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you Lord Blackshire,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must find Mr. Hardison. We need to have a discussion about what just occurred.”

Blackshire nodded. “It was entirely improper of him,” he said. “But he was drinking quite a bit. I suspect things may have gotten to him.”

Mary nodded. “Perhaps,” she replied. “In any case, good day and good luck Lord Blackshire.” With that, she rose majestically and left the table.

It was impressive -- Mary plowed through the group of spectators who were whispering about her like a steamer plowing through a stormy sea. The panache the woman displayed would’ve made Irene proud if she was there to see it.

After a moment, Watson and Lestrade stood. “Well, since business is done,” Watson said, “We’ve got to be going also -- the missus is waiting for us and like I said, she’s a possessive one.”

Blackshire nodded. “It was a pleasure to do business with you,” he said, standing up and shaking their hands.

“Likewise,” Watson said. 

Blackshire watched the two men leave. Once they were out of sight, Blackshire summoned a servant. “Get Castleman and the boys,” he said. “I want those two eliminated.” 

~*~

As the horses were led out to the gates for the race, Watson and Lestrade headed through the paddocks before being stopped by six men. They were obviously not there for the race, given that they wore common clothing and not the mandatory formal morning attire. Also, they brandished knives. The stables were quiet, and in the distance, the sound of the race could be heard along with the chatter and cheers from people.

“Gentlemen,” Watson said, tipping his hat. “What do we owe this pleasure?”

The six fanned around Watson and Lestrade. “Not even an introduction?” Watson gripped his cane a bit more tightly. “How rude.”

Lestrade pressed up against Watson’s back. “So tell me doctor,” he muttered. “Did your friend predict this?”

Watson chuckled. “Probably,” he said, before the six men lunged for him and Lestrade.

One man charged forward at Watson, who stepped to the side. As the man charged past, Watson slapped at his back with his cane and followed up with a kick to the rear, causing the man to stumble forward and fall on his face. Running forward, Watson drew his sword and slashed at an attacker, causing him to jump back in surprise.

One hooligan grabbed Lestrade’s arms as another one charged him. Lestrade’s foot kicked up into his restrainer’s knee, then stamped down on his foot. As the man began to crumple to the ground, Lestrade head-butted him. Grabbing him in the family jewels, the inspector gave a squeeze, before whipping his attacker around into his charging opponent. The two men fell to the ground.

“That’s how it’s going to be eh?” One of the men chuckled as he slashed at Watson with his knife.

Watson grinned as he parried the thrusts with his sword. But in an unguarded moment the man grabbed his coat, throwing the doctor off balance. Stumbling slightly, his foe kicked Watson in his injured thigh, causing him to buckle and let out a yelp as white-hot sparks of pain flickered in his vision and the sword fell to the ground with a clatter.

His opponent grinned savagely as he followed up, driving his elbow between Watson’s shoulder blades, causing him to land on the ground, kneeling. There was an attempt to kick him in the stomach, but Watson grabbed his leg and twisted his knee, causing him to fall to the ground. Eye to eye, the doctor punched him in the stomach, then followed up with a cross-cut to the jaw, causing him to fall to the ground.

Before he could stand, the hooligan who Watson tripped earlier stalked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Watson’s neck. He gasped for air, flailing about futilely in an attempt to free himself.

“Oi! Lay off of him!” Lestrade yelled, grabbing the sword from the ground. Pointing it at Watson’s would-be strangler, Lestrade pressed the blade against the man’s neck. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” the man grinned up at Lestrade and his grip tightened. 

“I would,” a voice was heard behind the man, then the whistling sound of a riding crop lashing out at the back of the man’s head. 

Stung, the man’s grip relaxed. Watson gasped for air, then stood. He kneed the man in the stomach. As his strangler let go and doubled over in pain, Watson elbowed him in the back on the way down, then followed up with a savage kick to the stomach.

He glanced up at Sherlock. “Where’s Mary?” he asked.

“Getting certain things in order,” Sherlock said before the remaining two men charged him. Seeing a pitchfork in one of the nearby stalls, Watson grabbed it and poked one man in the behind. Howling in pain, he turned around and then got another poke in the torso, before he raised it up and smacked the man upside the head with the flat of the tongs. The man reeled briefly in pain, before Watson followed up with a more savage blow to the head, causing him to fall to the ground.

Sherlock was in the midst of a hand-to-hand battle with the last man. Both of them appeared evenly matched, parrying and blocking blows. Watson and Lestrade tackled the man and a single blow to the head knocked the ruffian unconscious.

Before they knew it, constables flooded the stables, surrounding the six men, Sherlock , Watson and Lestrade. Clarkie stepped forward and greeted Lestrade.

“We were on the way to apprehend Lord Blackshire,” he said, just as the crowd began roaring as the race began. 

Sherlock and Watson glanced at each other and began laughing. They both realized that Mycroft had more planned for his vengeance. Watson was leaning on Holmes for support. His thigh still burned and he knew he was going to ache later that night.

Sherlock and Watson nodded. “You’re staying here Lestrade?” Holmes asked. 

“I wouldn’t miss this collar for the world,” Lestrade said with a ferret-like grin. “What is he be arrested for?”

Clarkie’s face was impassive, but the three men could tell there was a bit of glee being suppressed. “We got word of some smuggling activities that were going to occur today,” he said. “A kind citizen warned us and we were able to have some of our boys at the scene.

“There were twelve children -- all no older than ten,” he continued, his moustache twitching in distaste. “Brought in from Romania. As well as some weapons and alcohol. The warehouse is secured now, but we’d like to question Lord Blackshire about these illicit shipments.”

Watson and Sherlock nodded. “Well then Lestrade,” Sherlock said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll be off then.”

Lestrade nodded. “Until next time Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he said, handing Watson his cane and then heading off with the constables.

~*~

Mary passed by Mycroft as she hurried out of the race track, looking for Sherlock and her husband. As they passed, she quickly palmed the contracts, placing them in his hand. Neither of them acknowledged each other as she made her way towards the exit. An excited murmur rose through the crowd as the horses and their jockeys were lead out of the stable. 

She slipped into the crowd and then out of the racetrack, listening as the sound of cheers grew louder as the race began. Spotting a carriage, Mary entered it and found herself sitting across from her husband and their friend.

“Are we ready?” Sherlock asked.

Mary nodded. “Everything is in place.”

Banging the top of the carriage, the vehicle started and on its way to the train station. Both Sherlock and Watson looked like they had been in a scuffle. Her husband was massaging his thigh and wincing in pain and Sherlock had some red marks around his face and neck. Mary guessed both of them were covered in bruises under their clothing, but that would have to wait until later to see the extent of the damage.

“What on earth happened to you two?” Mary asked, leaning and brushing her fingers over both men’s injuries. Sherlock and Watson leaned into her touch like a pair of cats as she examined them closely. 

“Blackshire thought he’d send someone to twist around the deal,” Sherlock said, his eyes opening as he came out of his reverie. “Eliminate the buyers and then sell the items on his own connections.”

Mary chuckled. “What a stupid twit,” she said bluntly. She put her hands back in her lap.

The two men laughed, then winced in pain. “Are you both badly hurt?” she asked.

They shook their heads. “Nothing a hot bath and perhaps a night in front of a warm fire won’t cure,” Watson said. 

“Sadly that may have to wait a bit,” Sherlock said. “We’ve got the train ride to Chichester and then a bit of a ride to Mycroft’s estate before we can relax.”

The three nodded. Thankfully their end of the bargain was already done and they could breathe easily. After a moment, Mary opened her purse to examine the tickets that Irene had given her. True to Mycroft’s style, the tickets were for a private compartment, first class the entire way. 

“You know --” Mary said with a slightly puckish grin. “We might be able to ascertain your injuries before we get to Chichester.”

A set of blue and brown eyes bored into her. Her grin widened. “Apparently we have a private compartment.”

“How Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “While I believe in blending in, he believes silence can be bought by throwing enough money at the situation.”

“After what we’ve just been through, we deserve first-class all the way my friend,” Watson muttered. “Also, I never thought I’d meet a man more complete in his schemes. Remind me never to plot against him.”

“Now do you see why I don’t work with him frequently?” Sherlock muttered. “That man is obsessive in his planning and execution. You don’t want to know how many times he held my violin hostage.”

As the two men began complaining about Mycroft and the mission, Mary smiled to herself and stared out the window, watching the scenery pass. She didn’t bother to pipe up and say that she enjoyed the adventure or that she finally understood why her husband was willing to run out at all hours to follow Sherlock though London’s underworld. Now the trick would be persuading the two of them to allow her to participate in their activities.

She knew they would object and say that crime was no place for a lady and that her place was at home. That this case was an anomaly never to be repeated. Mary reflected back on all the tricks that Irene taught her to bend people to her will during the past few days and realized she could use them to make Sherlock and Watson see her point. 

There was plenty of time for that, Mary thought to herself, a small, wicked smile spreading across her lips. 

~*~

The amazing thing about the Royal Ascot, Mycroft observed, was the fact that the buildup took longer than the race itself. Women took forever to get ready for the races, primping and preening like peacocks and men spent their time waiting for the women to get ready. Then at the race track, it was a never-ending onslaught of manners and propriety. The race itself took less time than it took for him to demolish a cheese platter. 

Even though he was there alone at the race, Mycroft knew many of the attendees and as a result, spent much of his time making small talk. Which was about as much fun as getting stabbed with a shrimp fork. Even though the entire thing made him itch, he tolerated it. There was five hundred pounds to collect from Blackshire -- as well as other things.

He had seen Mary pass by and feel her pass the contracts to him. Taking a quick moment, Mycroft reviewed them with a wicked smile. There was Blackshire’s signature -- stating that he was signing the company over to one of Secret Service’s many shadow companies. 

“Everything’s in place,” Lestrade sidled up next to him. Mycroft glanced at the inspector and saw him with a couple of welts around his face and neck.

“Excellent,” Mycroft’s smile got more wicked. “I take it you and your friend got into a scuffle?”

Lestrade nodded. 

“Shall we then?” Mycroft asked. 

Lestrade offered a toothy smile. “Let’s get the bastard,” he replied, then left Mycroft’s side.

Mycroft leaned against the rail to watch the race. He knew he had a few minutes to actually enjoy the horse race. Unlike his brother and Watson, who enjoyed profiting from the venture, Mycroft simply enjoyed watching the horses run. The beauty of watching the equine muscles ripple and how the right horse and jockey could combine to work as almost one being.

_Much like how things worked with this case,_ the chaotic portion of his brain whispered, just as the race started.

~*~

Even though Blaze King didn’t win the race, the stallion performed beautifully. Blackshire smiled to himself as he lit a cigar and accepted the congratulations from everyone. It had been a pretty good afternoon, he thought to himself. One business deal completed, a thousand pounds in cash in his hand and quite possibly in the future, a shipment of weapons he could sell on the black market himself, if Castleman and the boys did their job right. 

And now, Mycroft was ambling over to Blackshire, no doubt seeking his five hundred pounds. 

“Lord Blackshire,” Mycroft said with a smile. “Congratulations on the race.”

Blackshire nodded. “Thank you Mr. Holmes,” he replied. “I take it you are here to collect on the debt?”

“Shall we settled this elsewhere?“ Mycroft asked.

“I don’t imagine this taking long,” Blackshire said.

“As you wish,“ Mycroft nodded. “You have my five hundred pounds?”

Blackshire nodded. 

“Also, do you have your company?”

Blackshire blinked. It was like time stopped. “Whatever do you mean Mr. Holmes?” he asked softly, paling slightly as a wave of dread spread over him.

“Read your contract,” Mycroft replied.

Blackshire didn’t even bother with the pretense. Reaching into his suit coat pocket, he found the contract and read it over. There he saw that instead of signing a contract that set up an importing agreement with a Miss Sophie Devereaux, Blackshire had signed over his company to International Exports, Limited.

“If you look carefully,” Mycroft said quietly. “It is one of the many companies that I own. So now, I own your company.”

Blackshire snorted. “That would never stand up in court,” he muttered. “I can argue deception.”

Mycroft nodded. “You might,” he said. “But how can you explain this?” he said, pointing in a direction.

There was a small group of constables led by a constable with an enormous moustache -- Mycroft thought it was rather magnificent -- heading to Blackshire. 

“Lord Blackshire,” the constable said, stopping in front of the two men. “We need you to come and speak with Inspector Lestrade.”

Blackshire’s posture became ramrod straight. “Don’t you realize where you are man?” he asked. “You’re at the Queen’s Ascot.”

The man looked somewhat apologetic. “I understand that,” he said. “But we found some illicit goods at your warehouse today and we’d like to speak to you about them.”

“What illicit things?” There was a slight note of panic in Blackshire’s voice that made Mycroft’s mouth twitch in a slight smile. 

The constable moved forward and whispered in Blackshire’s ear. Mycroft didn’t need to hear what was said. He knew what the shipment was, thanks to reading Blackshire’s shipping records. He also knew that Irene sent a note to the Yard about the upcoming import, along with the paperwork from Blackshire’s office. Which was why she wasn’t at the race with him.

Blackshire pulled back and glared at Mycroft. “You may have gotten the company,” he said icily. “But I know that your friend is still going to hang.”

“Maybe not,” Mycroft said, observing at Inspector Lestrade ambled to the pair. 

“Mr. Sterling,” there was a slightly strangled tone to Blackshire’s voice. Mycroft couldn’t hide his glee as the smile turned into a grin.

“Actually, it’s Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” Lestrade said. “I’ve come to arrest you for the murder of Francis Bellamy.”

Blackshire’s face drained of all color as he flashed back to what he had said in front of him. _Call it luck. Part of it was that Mr. Culpepper never defended himself. Bellamy was reporting to the government. Something had to be done._

Lestrade grabbed the cane from Blackshire and examined it. Whistling softly, he said. “What do we have here? An air gun?” he glanced at the lord. “What say you come down to Scotland Yard with us to answer a few questions?”

To his credit, Lord Blackshire didn’t break his stoic countenance. He merely straightened his jacket and nodded curtly. “If you insist,” he said.

Mycroft smirked. “Constable?” he looked at the mustachioed man.

The man nodded. “Mr. Holmes?”

“I think I should go down with you to the Yard,” Mycroft said. “I suspect there may be questions about Blackshire Imports, and as the new owner, I would be happy to address any of your concerns.”

The crowd around them quieted as they watched Lord Blackshire and Mycroft Holmes get swallowed up in a sea of blue as uniform-clad constables surrounded them silently, only to exit from the racetrack without comment.

For years people would say that was one of the more scandalous and exciting Royal Ascot Races in their memory. For Mycroft, it sent a clear message to many people:

_Mycroft Holmes is not a man to be trifled with. His vengeance is swift, sure and complete._

~*~

In the days following Blackshire’s arrest, Mycroft spent his time at his Whitehall office quietly taking care of the remaining details. Immediately after passing of information onto Scotland Yard, Irene vanished. Not that Mycroft worried. He knew he would see her soon enough.

Sherlock, Watson and Mary were in Chichester -- doing exactly what, Mycroft didn’t dare speculate. He was just thankful that the staff was discreet and would not be too scandalized by whatever shenanigans were occurring. He figured they were navigating new ground between them and would need the time to gain their footing and the best place for that was not in the middle of a scandal-plagued London.

He was working one afternoon in his office, reviewing paperwork, when the door opened and a familiar voice could be heard rumbling.

“Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more.”

Mycroft chuckled as he looked up. Sitting in the chair across from his desk was Harry -- looking a bit thinner, a bit paler and more gaunt, but there was still the devilish twinkle in his eye. He was dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt and tie. With his mutton chops and wild eyebrows, Mycroft thought he looked like a giant schnauzer dressed in human clothing. 

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,” Mycroft replied with a warm smile.

“You’re out of order in the play, you realize,” Harry shot back. “That’s in Act Four.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I thought it was more appropriate for the occasion,” he said, putting away the paper work. Rummaging through a desk drawer, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Pouring two glasses, he handed one to Harry.

“You’re a dammed fool,” Harry said, accepting the glass from Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged. “Irene already passed that message onto me.”

“Speaking of the darling dear --”

“Off on her own adventure,” Mycroft replied. “I thought it would be prudent to have her leave immediately after obtaining information from Blackshire’s estate regarding his last shipment.”

Harry nodded. “Nice tie,” he said. 

Mycroft looked down at the blue silk tie. “Thanks,” he said. “It was a gift from Irene.”

“That woman has excellent taste.” Harry chuckled, then took a sip of his drink. “You do realize that what you did was a breach of protocol?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Mycroft’s smile was practically angelic. “Inspector Lestrade was fortunate enough to find out who actually murdered Bellamy thanks to a slip of Blackshire‘s tongue.”

“And the company?”

“I won it as part of a poque game fair and square,” Mycroft replied. 

Harry’s expression was a mix of skepticism and mirth. “Funny how the other two players and a Miss Alice White have vanished so it’s only your word against his.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Odd isn’t it?”

“And what about poor Lady Blackshire? Would you leave that woman destitute after obtaining her husband’s company?”

Mycroft nearly snorted his drink. “Don’t be foolish,” he replied carefully. “We have no use for it, so it’s been sold off in bits and pieces to other companies. Lady Blackshire received a percentage of the sale, which should leave her very comfortable in her years. Hopefully she’ll have enough money to buy the latest Parisian fashions.”

Harry’s face threatened to split into a grin. “What about the remainder?”

“I was owner,” Mycroft replied. “I thought I could keep a small percentage of the profit.”

“Bollocks,” Harry chuckled. “You had to pay off the rest of your crew.”

Mycroft’s expression to an outsider would have been consider impassive. But this was Harry -- a man who knew him for more than twenty years and had seen many things with him. Harry instantly understood what was unsaid and the chuckle melted into a heartfelt smile.

Harry took another drink. “In any case, I thought I’d come by to let you know you’re still welcome at the pub,” Harry said, standing. “I’m going to be off this evening. London continues to be an inhospitable place for me.“ His grin became devilish. “Since I’m stuck in town for a few hours, shall we go out and get into some trouble?”

Mycroft emitted a bark of laughter. “I’d love to, but London? Everyone is just talking about the latest scandal and it‘s impossible to go anywhere without whispers plaguing me. It‘s putting me off my dinner.” 

“I’m amazed by that,” Harry raised an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d see something that put you off your dinner.”

“You bounder,“ Mycroft retorted as the two men began laughing. After the laughter died down, Mycroft added, “Besides, I‘m heading to Chichester to escape all this gossip.”

Harry nodded and sipped his drink. The two men sat in amicable silence for awhile.

“It’s amazing the luck you can get sometimes,” Harry winked at his friend. “Let us swear that you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not --”

“For there is none of you so mean and base, that hath not noble lustre in your eyes,” Mycroft continued.

“I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips --”

Mycroft stood and raised his glass. “Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot;”

The two men clinked their glasses. “Follow your spirit and upon this charge Cry ‘God for Harry, England and Saint George’!”

Finishing their drinks, Harry leaned over and shook Mycroft’s hand. Without another word, he exited the office. Mycroft turned to watch his friend exit the building and enter a cab. Then he watched the cab until it vanished around the corner. 

It wasn’t until then that Mycroft permitted himself another drink and a chuckle of pure joy.

~*~

If he was hoping for a quiet welcome when he arrived at the Chichester estate, Mycroft was sadly mistaken. Even though it was nearly dinner and his stomach was rumbling, the argument he heard as he entered made his appetite falter.

“Why can’t I come with you on future cases?” he could hear Mary petulantly ask. “Haven’t I proven my worth?”

“It’s not a matter of that,” Watson’s voice was firm, yet exasperated. “No wife of mine will put herself at risk like this. I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it? But you’ll think it’s perfectly fine to leave me behind worrying about your safety as you go gallivanting off on adventures?”

Mycroft sighed. _Three meters to the steps,_ he thought. _Fourteen steps up to the bedrooms. Avoid eleventh step, for it is creaky. From there, ten meters until my bedroom -- thankfully isolated from Sherlock‘s rooms and the Watsons‘ rooms. Once there, unpack, summon maid. Have dinner delivered to room. Do not emerge until bickering has died down or everyone is asleep. Chances of success? Fairly good, depending on how loud bickering is._

“But you let Irene --”

“I’m not married to Irene,” Watson snapped. 

“Also, I’m not about to let any wife of Watson’s join in on this venture,” he could hear Sherlock jump into the fray. “You are needed at home. Not attacking some ruffians.”

Mycroft began lumbering towards the steps with an uncharacteristic stealth for such a large man. He could hear the arguing getting louder and he hoped that it would cover his movement. It all seemed so promising -- he had reached the tenth step and was nearly home free when the door to the drawing room suddenly opened.

“-- this isn’t over John!” he could hear Mary say as she opened the door to go storming out of the room. Then he heard a gasp of surprise, “Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft inwardly cursed, then schooled his features into something more civil as he turned around. 

“Mrs. Watson,” he said coolly. 

Before more could be said, Watson and Holmes burst out of the drawing room.

“You --” Watson pointed at Mycroft with his cane. “You did this.”

“Mycroft,” Holmes said, with a sardonic smile. “So happy to see you.”

“I can tell I’ve interfered in something,” Mycroft said. “I’ll be in my bedroom, let me know when dinner is ready.”

“Don’t you dare,” Mary said, a pleading tone coloring her words. “I need you to be the voice of reason with these two.” She shot a glare at the other men. “You seem to be more enlightened in this matter.”

“And I already was reluctant to have you go on this adventure,” Watson replied crisply. “That was a one-time adventure and now we are done.”

“But you’ve seen what kind of asset I can be,” Mary retorted. “Even Holmes realizes that.”

Mycroft glanced at his brother, who was staring at the floor, no doubt trying to burn a hole with his considerable mind power to fall through as the Watsons began arguing yet again. He decided to distract them for a moment. “I come bearing gifts,” he announced. 

Three sets of eyes focused on him. Pulling three envelopes out of his suit coat pocket, he distributed them. “We made a bit of money from the sale of Blackshire’s company,” he said. “There was enough left for us to have a taste as well as pay off Lady Blackshire handsomely.”

The three opened the envelopes and Mycroft was pleased to see the surprised etched on their faces.

“Is this as much --” Mary’s bright blue eyes bored into him.

Mycroft shrugged. ‘I was able to bargain a good price for all the different components of his company,” he said. “It’s a matter of the parts being worth --” he could see the slight confusion on Mary’s face. “Let’s just say I’m very good at what I do,” he shrugged.

“We could live handsomely off of this for years,” Watson murmured.

“We could travel John,” Mary whispered. “And live handsomely.”

“I could be choosier about my cases,” Sherlock looked up at Mycroft and grinned. “Do you realize that this is idle rich money brother dear?”

Mycroft grinned. “Not bad for a one time job,” he gently said.

The three nodded. “It was good while it lasted,” Mary sighed. 

“Now leave me in peace,” Mycroft said. “I am going upstairs to rest. Let me know when dinner is ready.”

With that, he walked up the stairs. He was almost down the hall to his room when he heard voices behind him.

“You know, I haven’t had fun like that in awhile,” he heard Sherlock say. “I mean, you were irritating, but it was also an interesting exercise --”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. _Three meters,_ he thought to himself. _Three lousy meters until sweet refuge._

Then Mary’s voice floated through the air. “I really enjoyed myself,” he could hear the cajoling tones in her voice. “You and Irene were excellent mentors and I really enjoyed working with my husband and Holmes.”

Mycroft sidled to the door. _So close. Two meters_ he thought.

“You realize,” he could hear Watson’s voice. “You are going to need us again. If you continue to do things outside of the law and require help in London, who would be more loyal?”

With that, Mycroft bolted to his room. Slamming the door shut, he locked it. “We will discuss this at dinner!” he roared, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door.

Quiet. Blessed quiet. Hopefully by the time dinner rolled around, people would be calmer and more civil.

Then the smell of Parisian perfume wafted through the air. 

“How did you get in here?” he asked with a faint chuckle.

“Climbed in through the window,” he heard Irene reply. “I heard the arguing and didn’t want to deal with those three battling.”

He emitted another chuckle, then turned around, opening his eyes. There she was, standing in front of him, clad in menswear. Mycroft supposed it was easier at times to travel as a young boy when people expected a striking woman. And it would be easier to climb up the trellis and vines in menswear as opposed to a dress. 

He took a deep breath and could feeling his moorings slowly unraveling. 

“I have something for you,” he said, tossing her the envelope.

Irene opened it and smiled. “Lovely,” she said, pocketing it. 

“You’re not going to buy something with it? Shoes or dresses?”

There was a low chuckle as a small smile flitted across her face. “I’ll stash it away. Use it for my travels,” she said quietly. “I like money.”

Mycroft laughed. “You would.” He winced as he saw her smile. Mycroft was well accustomed to that smile. Irene was about to try and persuade him to do something. And he would agree, because it was a good idea -- or at least she’d make him think it was a good idea.

The worst part is that he would enjoy every minute of it and then later think it was his idea, while she sat in the corner smirking like a cat that ate the canary then finished the meal with a bit of clotted cream.

He closed his eyes again and leaned his head up against the door. Of course she would get him in a vulnerable state -- hungry, weary, and (now) slightly aroused by her presence. 

“Come on Mycroft,” he heard Irene purr. He could feel her body press up against him. Mycroft refused to open his eyes, because he knew if he did, he’d have to keep dealing with the Pandora’s Box he opened. 

Small hands walked up his coat, shucking it off. “Did you have a bit of fun playing the black king instead of the white knight?”

“Irene --” he growled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and peppered his face with kisses.

“Just this once?” the small hands undid his tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Nice tie,” she said softly, momentarily distracted as she fingered the blue silk.

“Thanks. It was a gift,” he replied, seizing control of the situation. Grabbing her around the waist, he managed to say, “This will be discussed after dinner,” before he covered her mouth with his to silence her and a fog of lust took over his brain and his fingers worked to bind her wrists with the tie. 

_That should buy me enough time to figure out my next move_ , he thought to himself, as he began unbuttoning her waistcoat and shirt and she let out a giggle of delight as his lips moved down her neck. _Now I remember why I don’t like working with people._


End file.
